|i bust through the fence|
like some dying ******* dog.
rust bites my skin -
i don’t even care.
glass and needles
smiling up at me,
begging me to fall.
|i do.|
face to the dirt.
blood running like it’s late for something.
but me?
i don’t feel a ******* thing.
not till later.
not till i’m already gone from there,
and everything i touch -
shirt, pants, face,
all of it -
is screaming red.
but **** it.
you’re still dead.
and no cut on my body
can scream louder
than the hole you left.
|crawled out|
through a hole even smaller.
left skin,
blood,
pieces of myself behind.
got on a tram -
eyes burning through me,
faces like empty plates,
staring.
i hide mine.
hide it deep.
jumped off at the next stop
before the world could eat me alive.
friends waiting.
questions.
questions.
questions.
couldn’t answer.
couldn’t even breathe.
one friend -
the only one who knew better -
wiped the blood off me
like i was a broken kid.
and that’s when it hit.
not just the blood,
but the real pain.
the gut pain.
the soul pain.
all of it crashing down,
ugly,
loud,
final.
i cried.
|i ******* cried.|
then we ran back to the city,
where the bottles don’t ask questions,
where you can drink yourself
into the dirt.
i drank you away that night.
or tried to.
but ghosts,
they don’t drown easy.
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 7:35 PM UTC
i told myself i was done.
scrubbed the bathroom tile like it was me that needed cleansing,
not the floor.
drank coffee instead of shots,
hit the gym,
got good at smiling again.
they said i looked better.
they always say that when you’re not dying in front of them.
but they don’t see
how the ghosts still come at night,
how the itch lives in the jaw,
in the back of the eyes,
like a ******* radio playing a station
you thought you turned off months ago.
i was clean.
for a while.
like the silence right before a scream -
that beautiful, dangerous quiet
where you think maybe you made it.
maybe this time you beat it.
maybe this time you win.
but addiction is smarter than you.
it waits.
doesn’t need to rush.
it knows you’ll come crawling
when the applause fades,
when the texts stop,
when the world gets boring again.
you think you’re sparing them,
keeping it tucked away,
like shame’s just a private little pet you feed
when no one’s watching.
but hiding it doesn’t protect them.
it just breaks them slower.
like they’re loving someone through bulletproof glass -
close enough to see the cracks,
too far to stop the bleeding.
and the worst part?
the worst part is that some days
you’re proud of how good you’ve gotten
at pretending.
how well you play “okay.”
like you deserve a ******* medal
for surviving your own lies.
truth is -
you don’t ever get out.
you don’t get cured.
you just get distance.
and even that -
that’s a rental.
because addiction
isn’t about weakness,
it’s about forgetting how to want anything
that doesn’t destroy you.
and maybe one day
i’ll be better.
but i’ll never be new.
and maybe that’s what clean really means -
not the absence of poison,
but the choice to keep waking up
even when it still lives
in your bones.
Jun 18, 2025
Jun 18, 2025 at 6:39 PM UTC
Every room I‘ve lived in
still exists somewhere,
paint peeling,
floors scuffed by boots
I don’t wear anymore.
The walls hold secrets
I‘ve forgotten -
the arguments,
the silence after arguments,
the hum of the fridge
at 2 a.m. when I couldn’t sleep.
I wonder if anyone hears me now,
the way I hear the ones
who came before.
Jun 7, 2025
Jun 7, 2025 at 6:48 PM UTC
there‘s a room in my head
where I put all the things
I can‘t say to anyone.
it’s cluttered.
broken chairs,
half-drunk bottles,
notes scrawled on napkins
with words
I was too afraid to mean.
people tell you
to let it go,
but what they don’t tell you is -
the heaviest stuff
floats right back.
Jun 7, 2025
Jun 7, 2025 at 6:48 PM UTC
The city doesn’t sleep,
it mutters to itself,
like the old man on the corner
shaking his cup for spare change.
The lights blink out messages
you’re too tired to read,
and the streets carry whispers
of footsteps you’ll never follow.
You’re alone,
but not lonely-
not really.
The world’s still spinning,
the stars are still laughing
at us poor fools who think
this moment
means something.
But maybe it does.
Maybe that streetlight blinking ahead
is a sign.
Or maybe it’s just a bulb going bad.
Does it matter?
You keep walking.
Jun 7, 2025
Jun 7, 2025 at 6:23 PM UTC
You touched me,
and I remembered how stars bleed
before they die.
May 7, 2025
May 7, 2025 at 1:14 PM UTC
Sometimes the past slips away -
a dream that never was.
But the wanting stays,
like a ghost in the hallway.
We carry it,
each step a little lighter.
Apr 10, 2025
Apr 10, 2025 at 6:34 PM UTC
In the bruise of neon twilight,
do you hear the murmurs of fallen titans?
Our weary hands hold forgotten keys
to rusted kingdoms of hope and decay.
We reforge legends in alleyway sermons,
where ancient echoes meet the hiss of rain -
fables of sunken gods and exiled warriors,
whispered between shattered, heartfelt beats.
Have you tasted the bitter lips of revolt,
the raw nectar of midnight confessions?
In these rain-soaked streets, truth is a bruised bloom,
unfurling amid broken glass and smudged lore.
Fathers rasp secrets from battered concrete,
while mothers dissolve in industrial shadows
our pulse, a ragged hymn echoing
through streets carved by forgotten revelries.
We huddle beneath a fractured moon,
where graffiti speaks the language of rebellion,
and every scar in the city is a stanza
in our relentless, aching poem of survival.
Grant us a stolen hour
to celebrate wild, desperate art
to clutch the tender flames of our revolt,
even as we wade through urban ashes
in defiant, hopeless grace.
Apr 9, 2025
Apr 9, 2025 at 3:34 PM UTC
he told me:
“addiction is just gravity.
you try to climb out,
but it pulls you back,
over and over.
at some point,
you stop fighting.
you call it home.”
then he wiped his nose,
snorted another line,
and laughed.
like gravity was a joke
only he understood.
Apr 2, 2025
Apr 2, 2025 at 3:45 PM UTC
she kissed me once,
in the dark corner of a bar
nobody we knew would ever walk into.
her hands were trembling,
but her lips—
god, her lips knew exactly
what they wanted.
and for a moment,
I let myself believe
she could be mine.
just for a moment.
she pulled away like she’d been caught,
looked around
at all the strangers who didn’t care,
who didn’t even see.
but she saw them.
she saw their eyes in her head
even when they weren’t looking.
“this can’t happen,” she said,
like it hadn’t already.
like I wasn’t sitting there,
still tasting her on my mouth.
“you don’t understand,” she said,
and maybe she was right.
because I didn’t understand
how you could feel something that big,
that loud,
and still pretend
you didn’t.
but I didn’t fight her.
I just nodded,
because I’d seen this before.
not with her,
but with others like her—
women who carried love
like a smuggled thing,
hidden deep in their pockets,
afraid to let it see the light.
she called me late sometimes,
when the fear wasn’t as strong
as the wanting.
we’d meet in motel rooms
on the edge of town,
where the curtains were thick
and the walls were thin.
and in those moments,
she was alive—
all fire and ache and need.
but when the sun came up,
she’d be gone before I woke,
like a ghost
afraid of being caught in the daylight.
I told her once,
“you don’t have to live like this.
you don’t have to hide.”
but she just shook her head
and said,
“not everyone is as brave as you.”
brave.
what a word for it.
it didn’t feel like bravery.
it felt like ripping myself open
over and over,
waiting for her to decide
she was ready to step out of the shadows.
but she never did.
she stayed in her closet,
her church pew,
her tight little box of shame.
and I stayed outside,
watching the door,
waiting for it to open.
but it never did.
Mar 28, 2025
Mar 28, 2025 at 1:54 AM UTC