wait for the thunder to hold its rumble, but watch for the lighting to illuminate the dark skies and the long tears in your auspicious eyes, yet forever holding a mutilated heart upon a tattered, white sleeve

breathing
talking
looking
being
trying
hoping
-
-
-
they all have something that relate them...
they are all *painful.

L oveless
I nfectious
F earless
E mpty
-
I solated
S uffering
-
N otorious
O ver-rated
T erminal
-
W oeful
O dible
R uthless
T ime-consuming
H ateful
-
L onely
I ntoxicating
V icious
I illaqueates
N narquois
G leek
--

some
    people
          throw
             around
                 words,
                      that
                          others
                               consider
                        ­             precious...

the pills made me feel something when the boys didn't.

I keep telling myself that if I lay here long enough something's gonna swallow me and it's not because my heads been somewhere else lately it's because I sleep on the floor. Even when I don't. I sleep on the floor. The mattress has holes because mattresses get holes sometimes when you don't have blankets to cover them and you're too cold to put the cigarette out on anything other than yourself or what you have to sleep on now. Last year I'd spend every day in bed with a little bag full of drugs and a map to the bathtub just in case I forget what I took two seconds ago because I think it happened yesterday and I take more. And then I'm shaking, not because I'm cold this time. I'm seizing and nobody is home because everybody leaves me for preachers or church or a campfire or someone prettier. This part is foggy. I remember again a bathtub, an empty hotel bathtub and my mother and I say mama did you leave the door open on purpose and she says I went to church. She went to church. She went to church. Bathtub. I sleep there. Even though we are in a hotel I sleep in the bathtub because I like the way my anxiety sounds when it echoes. I like to hear it. Play it back. Memory. Back to the only house I've ever lived in alone.  I'm seizing. I stop. I hear you. I somehow forget that it's 4 in the morning. It's my birthday now, nobody knows but it's my birthday now, teen years behind me but still a teen year drug addiction and you tell me to look out the window so I do. And the sky's on fire. I don't fall asleep again for three days but the sky's on fire. And so am I. And so are you. And I don't want to go back to the place I go to when I see the faces but I put myself here. I push and push and push and then I act surprised when something falls off the edge. I'm alone now. Even when I'm not. I'm alone.