the gods spoke to me
from the depths of my
shower drain.

choking on
old soap and
blood,

their echoed whispers
soaked my hair
and stained my skin

seeping beneath
the cloudy film of
my ever weary eyes.

wish that you could be
her.
wish that you could be
a piece
of someone beautiful and
undesiring
of a new life

that you could be
a flower
and grow into your
own blossoming
self hatred.

wish that you
could be
the name that melts
in the mouths
of every lover
you never
had.

wish that you
could be
needed
(if only for a
moment)

like the last lost
flashlight
during a storm
or a steady breath of fresh,
open
air
after a long afternoon or
after an even longer
tea-stained night of
this and this and
that
or a good paint brush when
you realize
you broke your last one but
you cannot
contain
the jitters in your fingertips that
reach
for the canvas
or the wall
at the back
of your closet.


wish that you
could be
needed.

like a good kiss or
a 1:30 am walk
to the front steps of the
library
with a
pocketknife
for a sense of false
security and
independence-

or hell
for all of the above.

all of my should haves and what ifs
crawl into bed with me
at 6:30
on a wednesday
morning.

some days
are worse
than others.

at 6:45 i reach
deep
into my throat
and pull out the
sleep
that waits there
like a
sick dog
throwing it over my
shoulder
and leaving it
panting
just beneath my pillow
waiting for me
to return home
at the end of another
very
long
day

some of which
are worse
than others.

the sunlight
reaching
its fingers
through my bedroom
curtains is no longer
gold and beautiful
but muted blue and grey-
i know this feeling.

briefly i think
i can hear an alarm
clock clock down the street
or maybe it’s mine
i’m not sure i can’t think

but i realize
eventually
it’s just my ears ringing
like they do
at the start of
another
unwanted
morning
so
i pull together
all the worn
stitches
at all my exhausted
seams
just enough
to make it
downstairs.

this is how it always
starts

but some days
are worse
than others.

keep
the black hole,
the cherry pit

of self loathing
tucked neatly
away
at the back of your throat,
beneath

your tongue and
for god’s sake
don’t let it slip
from behind your teeth and
into your
speech-
when you
do, everything
after
is slurred and
*****.

so keep.
keep the self loathing-
away.

keep it at the bottom
of your pocket
and let it
sink
into the holes of your jeans along with
your house key and
your lighter and
the spare pills.

keep this feeling
in the folded palm of
your hand.

keep pretending
like none of this
bothers
you
until you can taste
the cyanide
in all the cherry pits
you’ve been choking yourself
on.

but don’t ever
try to pretend
that no one ******* loves
you
when you know they do

and keep yourself
together
long enough
to realize
how wrong
they were.