My mother always said
Suicide is the most selfish act
A person can commit.
When Ned Vizzini killed himself
I wanted to resuscitate him
And shake him by the shoulders.
I wanted to scream
Fuck you for leaving us like this,”
In his face
I gave his book to my friends
When they said they wanted to jump
Off buildings so high
They wouldn’t even feel
Hitting the pavement.
And I bet he didn’t
When he decided
To climb to the roof of that building
And launch himself off the top.
I used to prescribe his words
Like modern medicine.
But how can I continue to offer someone
The paperbacked best selling
Of a hypocrite?
We needed you,”
Rattles around my brain
Like an animal in a cage.
And then I realize
I never sent him a note,
A thank you.
I always meant to.
Maybe it wouldn’t have changed his mind,
But I still should have made the time to send
Who deserved it.
I realized then
I can’t be angry at a man
I’ve never met
For his sadness getting the best of him.
Ned Vizzini by Colleen Michele (thatstoomainstream)
I’m not much of a love poet. But if I woke up tomorrow morning and decided I really wanted to write about love, my first poem would be about you. About how I love you the same way I learned how to ride a bike. Scared… but breathless. With no training wheels or elbow pads so my scars can tell the story of how I fell for you.
I’m not much of a love poet. But if I was, I’d write about how I see your face in every cloud and your reflection in every window. You see I’ve written a million poems hoping that somehow you’d jump out of the pages and be closer to me because if you were here. Right now. I’d massage your back so your skin sings songs that your lips don’t even know the words to. Until your heartbeat sounds like my last name. And your smile, like the pacific ocean, I want to drink the sunlight from your skin.
If I was a love poet I’d write about how you have the audacity to be beautiful even on days when everything around you is ugly. I’d write about your eyelashes and how they are like violin strings that play symphonies every time you blink. If I was a love poet I’d write about how I melt in front of you like an ice sculpture every time I hear the vibration in your voice. So whenever I see your name on the caller ID, my heart plays hopscotch inside of my chest and it climbs onto my ribs like monkey bars and I feel like a child all over again.
I know this sounds strange, but every now and then, I pray to God that he turns you back into one of my ribs just so I never have to spend an entire day without you.”