Funny the older I get the more I find myself changing
The ways I hurt myself always change, different pains. Same vices

As appealing as seeing my blood make those strange designs as they drip down my arms sounds.
It’s becoming harder to hide the wounds.

Maybe it’s the self doubt? Challenging myself on the most minor choices. Eating away at me.

Becoming obsessive over friends, strangers, anyone really.
Knowing I’m not their problem.

Or maybe it’s the drugs, the same ones that keep my brain at bay are the ones that make the grey matter rot,

it’s all about moderation, and tonight I have none.

I’m on a drive,
I’m smoking a cigarette
I’m hearing very little
I’m feeling even less
Wonder if I’ll see the engine stop, I wonder if these keys will enter my pockets again.

I wonder if the lights fade out or if it’s a cut to black

New weapons.
Same vices.
Good night.

unwashed shrimp; sick pink wishes
putrid puking and hot weather flashes
headaches and nausea for forgetting me
raw plates of karmic misery, i drank too much

I'll weather it with you through the phone
congealed seafood skies when i was alone
bred the bacteria that made you so ill
petri dish summer, i never wanted
to **** you, i drank too much

forty degrees like a tenerife beach
maybe from now you'll remain within reach
below the surface marine life bubbles
the fish of my thoughts will swim out of trouble
from now on
maybe I won't drink too much

i turned eighteen today
the voice in my head had, something to say
“you’ve done so well, 132”
she told me “no one will recognize you”
that was before i lost all self control
looking around i see the ice cream bowl
now all i can do is eat
and eat

i used to be able to sit for hours
and write poems for you
now it feels like im trying to squeeze elephants out of a pinhole
my words dont flow the same
the song does not sing and my mind will not think
is it because im not as sick?
does my creativity rely on my illness?
does my magic only work when im hopelessly in love with a man who wants nothing to do with me?
what the hell is going on.
now that ive healed, am i not allowed to visit the spring of creativity?
is it reserved for lowly people who do not know their worth?
oh muses i pray
let me write the same again one day

sick of all the
games everyone plays,
and all the
rules I have to abide to,

sick of all the things
I need to do,
and all the times
I must silence
myself away,

sick of going
through the hardships
just to enjoy the
good times for
a little while,

sick of proving
to others
my success, my self-love,
my worth,

sick of stressing
about life before it happens,
and forgetting to just live.

Golden skin with
the sweetest tone.
You were that
last smooth spoonful
that, although
it’s a bit too much,
no one can resist
eating even when
you know it
will get you
sick.
- dulce de leche.

Dimetapp all glistening cherry,
Flonase with its vibrant green cap,
Day old Campbell’s chicken noodle soup,
Scattered unripe oranges over the counter,
How many days can a person lay sick?
Cold mug of coffee with almond milk inclusions,
Watered down yellow stained tissues,
Eucalyptus tinted steam clouds from the humidifier,
Muted television talking heads spouting delusions,
The ragged edges of a quilt around the shoulders,
Enigmatic envelopes with bills within,
Perhaps someday they’ll see the light,
Forks in occultic formation,
Spoons in opposition of the forks,
Bamboo shoots staring from above,
Blush Yankee Candles cower,
I’ve been sitting here for over an hour,
Watching these objects has made me grow sour,
After all, there is not much to do in a fever dream,
So I will just stare, sniffle, and drink my cold coffee with cream.