Oby Tisdale
Everytime she says
"I want to grow old with you"
Every razor moves further
away from my wrists
At night, I hold her
And whisper poetry into her ear
Like an incantation to
Calm her demons
Come morning, I ravage her body
Like an exorcism
I pray to paperback gods
That my words someday be read
in dimlit bedrooms
By losers and lunatics like me
Thinking of taking what they
have to call their lives
The last time I tried to die
I snuck the revolver
From under my mother's bed
And rested the barrel
Against my head
As if to support its weight
My hoodie is more than clothing
You see, to me it is a suit of armor
Deflecting arrows and swinging swords
And piercing eyes that scrutinize
Because today I'm feeling weak inside
If I don't hide from the people outside
