Last thoughts...

Here are my last thoughts of you...this is what I promised myself.

Here are the last remnants of you, and I, both of us together.

Here I sit with your symbol sprawled across my chest, in large

capital letters.

No need to describe your symbol with various adjectives.

But here its sits upon my bosom...perfect.

It moves up and down with the short breaths I seem to be taking, all because...I've

seemed to remember you.

This here symbol seemed to go back and dig up the last few things I recall of us.

I seem willing!

Willing to bear all that is you...I know I was then.

I am the minister, and you my Love, you are Hester Pryne.

The symbol is the Scarlet Letter.

It hurts to look at but I have known for a while now that I am to bear it.

I have always worn it!

But you see THIS, THIS IS MY VERY LAST ODE TO YOU.

THAT IS A PROMISE I'VE MADE TO MYSELF!

That this symbol will no longer be a symbol.

And the sharp motions coming from my chest will come to a stop.

And the large capital letters will no longer form a very abstract version of your face.

THIS SYMBOL WILL BE NO MORE THAN A PLACE.

AND YOU, well you will be no more than a memory past that I can only hope to

forget, but know in my heart I won't.

At least not so soon.

But here...here are my last thoughts of YOU.

You truly don't deserve a name...

I shall be the death of me.
My very own reflection taunts me.
I quiver at my own inquiries.
Internal conflicts arise just as the sun, my words were always my moon.
Today…I’ve contemplated on losing my moon.
I have stabbed my own self in the back.
I am my very own pathological murderer.
I shall be the death of me…one day.

Little Miss Fuck Up

Little Miss Fuck Up
She was crouched down in a dark corner of a closet, pools of tears brimmed her eyes.
Not today, she had fought so hard not to complain, not to point blame.
Yet here she was again, falling.
She couldn’t help but ask herself if it was once again all her fault.
“Little Miss Fuck Up,” she whispered in the dark.
“That’s what they should call me.”

No one step had she taken that month that was not upon broken glass.
Today she bled, and today she stopped to look at the pieces.
Her reflection was one of another creature.
She had not known the face looking back at her with puffy red eyes and alcohol scented breath.
She smiled.
Today was not the day.
Yet here she was again, alone.
The silence echoed off every dark corner in that small closet, questioning her.
When she listened close enough she could make out faint sounds of so called “friends” promising to always be there.
She could see shadows of old relationships with rock foundations crumbling down upon her.
“Little Miss Fuck Up,” she answered no one.
“That’s what they should call me.”

Her life reeked of failure.
She still remembers the first time she welcomed pain.
She still can describe the feel of a razor pushed against her wrist, and the taste of tears sliding down her cheek.
She remembers being berated and belittled.
She shut her eyes in frustration; once again something had been all her fault.
“If only you would have not done this…or that” the voices in her head cooed as they all meshed together.
Not today, today it just can’t be her fault.
Yet there she was yet again, fading.
“I never felt wanted; I just started to want to feel” she murmured in her self -made cocoon.
“Little Miss Fuck Up, that’s what they should call me.”


By Alanna D.

Yes, this is based on...a few personal things. But really other peoples experiences.

Sorry for the sad feel to it.