Eating my beyond burger with a fork and knife,
drag race in the background,
my Samantha doll by my side.
This isn't loneliness anymore.
This is just life now.

I'm not very good with words anymore,
maybe I never was.
So little has changed and yet everything has.
I still long for love.
I still want to be wanted.
That might never change.

Yet now this lonely world is one I've come to accept,
come to love.
I may be my only friend here,
but that's one more than last year.

Nothing I create is good,
but I'm learning to create anyway.
I'm learning to share my bad art,
at least it's art.
Right?

I dream of slitting the throat of the dog next door.
Someone outta shut him up.
I used to think that was an evil thought,
now I know there's no such thing.

I turn 21 in 2 days.
Math. Yuck.
I'm old,
getting older every second.
Whatever.
I will grow into this skin,
I'm sure of it.
Maybe.

I'm grateful.
More than anything I am grateful for it all.
The pain,
the pleasure,
the guilt,
the anger.

Pills,
family,
friends,
dolls.

No one reads these except me.
So this one is for her.
For you.
Anne,
my love,
my villain,
my biggest fear.

May this year be kind to you,
may you be kind to it.
May you listen to your spirit guides,
may you accept what you never could.

Growth is sticky and wet,
Knowledge is thick and grey.
May you be the light and the darkness,
the cut and the band aid.

More than anything,
be okay.
You're gross,
in a sort of beautiful way.
May you be okay with that.
Truly.




Bad art is still art.
Right?
I think so.
For now.

High life bottles broken in knife fights;
the novel is hopeless but at least
that "dying light" **** is happily
it's own niche now.

Dreams have been louder
than usual lately.
Lonely linked linguistics with
a home-free ***** fit,
I'm a rose through the
drywall if you pay me.

They don't.

Wigs split themselves
and Incels run up gripping
Lysol cans and white bics
claiming they can make
halos with them.

They can't.

somehow, slowly sipping soju
through crazy-straws isn't seen
as art.

same goes for cyanide, somehow.

tough crowd.

gold falls from my ceiling
like fake snow on the set
of a ****** sitcom.

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance as long as forever is.

feel the most alone
when im the most sincere.
you all just want a poem
that feels like one of those
"after class" notes you wished
were passed to you in math class
or at least one that reminds you of
what you think that felt like.

well, bad news in Bosnia.

im in arrears to the
myth of self as well,
which is why
i ****** moons out of the night skies
i tattoo my hands beneath.

I don't know what you expec...
never mind.
(laugh track; plays through credits)

cheers to sage smoke and the little
bit of sunshine that leaks through
my window.

our halos are made of bleached bone. take from that what you will,
I've always been windblown anyway.

cheers to that **** too.

Honestly, I'm just excited to finally
see the plutonomy putrify;
dead opossum on a highway.