I present to the world
my impossible
portfolio
of poetically painted
impressions.

I don’t want to shed another tear,
I don’t want to burn my precious skin.
I don’t want my heart to ache another second knowing that I’ll never be good enough for you
I don’t want to be emotionally numb
I don’t want to spend another minute hating myself.
I don’t want to breakdown the thought of gaining a single pound.
I don't want to avoid human contact because of the thought that they will see me how I see myself.
I don’t want to love the feeling of hunger.
I don’t want to tear myself into pieces
I don’t want to see the beauty in the sick
I don’t want to weigh myself every 10 minutes
I don’t want to spend 3 hours pacing around my backyard
I don’t want to live in this constant l nightmare
I just want to be happy.
I want to be good enough.
I was to change for the better,
But it's harder than you think.

paralyzing.
a black hole ******* me in
nausea creeps in waves starting in my stomach
hot then cold
and sweating
I can't get comfortable
I can't bear it.
I gag and *****
until there's nothing left
but something claws me to
dizzying spells anyways.
I cry to spill the fears inside
but none the less they continue to reside.
I travel wearily through the evening
just to find a hopeful feeling
I am met with,
all the more nothing.
so why move? I stay rooted in
a single position,
waiting for it to find me.

but my hearts in my throat and I'm starting to choke
on the nothingness that surrounds me.
I can't breathe,
I find no solace in sleep.
This must be the final chapter.

(II)

I suppose it makes sense,
I'm so broken
beyond repair anyway
what's the point?
my paint is peeling
my walls are cracking
my floorboards creak with every step
I'm a mess
I'm a wreck
no really, save yourself
leave me dead.

you don't have to stay
just do me one last favour?
put a gun to my head
paint the walls with blood and lead
and take my pain away.

Lately
I don’t feel close
to poetry.

It feels elusive.
Unfamiliar.
Once it spoke to me.
But now it’s mute.

It sits back
and doesn’t look
at me.

If I call out
it doesn’t hear.

Lately poetry is
like that demon
I used to want
to reappear.

Hold your breath
Count to three
Be Whoever you need to be
They can’t hear you
anyway
It’s not the time
internalize
Tip and slop like turpentine
Stick me on the fishing line
Cast it up
above my head
Thoughts glisten
I breathe dead
Weightless
Wakeless
Asleep at the wheel
begging and praying
Make me a deal
Finish me
Finish them
Don’t turn back and see
They’re crawling on the walls and beams
Still stuck there
A creepy christening
Tell me I won’t remember who
Who I was before
I met you

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.