my furniture is sentient
and i am not as real
as i might like to be.
mild hallucinations,
like dramamine
without the paranoia.
is this a dissociative?
i did a little research
and i was going to have a sitter
but it came early and i
wanted to try it and - yes
i am just one bad decision
away from prison, one bad
decision away from lying
unconscious in a ditch.  
salvia is legal  and
causing me to calculate
the realities of the life
i am choosing to steer
with reckless ambition.

you said ‘i love you’
and kissed me hard
and i melted into the touch
that had grown to be so
comfortable, reassuring.
you said ‘i love you’
and i never thought
you would disappear
into thin air, without a goodbye.
you said ‘i love you’
and it haunts me.

you said ‘i love you’
and i thought that meant more
than ‘i’ll last a few months
and then you’ll never see
my bright green car again.’
you said ‘i love you’ and
i nodded out in your arms
after too much vicodin.

you said ‘i love you’
but didn’t tell me
how long that would last.

i’ve heard people explain
if **** and cigarettes are smelled
it’s coming from me, a perfume
i only have to light.
they’re used to my repetitive nature,
my decaying body stuffed inside
a six year old leather jacket.
it's a running gag that I
destroy myself on an
hourly basis. it's funny that I
spent most of high school
clawing at my wrists to get
the fatal flaws out.
I put myself on display
and then get uncomfortable when
I'm asked for a blow by blow
of my most recent suicidal episode.
the gashes on my arms seem to be
an invitation for people to ask me
personal questions whose answers
are only given as whispers under the blanket of night.
i am open and yet how closed am i,
the wanting to be heard conflicting
with wanting to create an air of mystery.
so when you smell smoke just know
i am around, i am waiting
for my name to slip out
when friends bring up
“crazy exes.”

I’m old enough to buy a semi automatic
but not old enough to buy a forty.
That’s okay, my dad drinks enough
that he doesn’t notice when a beer
or glass of wine is missing.
I drink to fall asleep, drink to wake up,
drink to write. They say alcohol doesn’t
make you any more creative, but I don’t
buy into that when I’m four beers in and am not
just another suicidal kid on the internet.
He doesn’t care that I hurt myself,
just that I cry around him. I’m not
allowed to be angry, but he sure as hell is.
He knocks over my mom’s organization
and yells at me as I tremble, scared as hell,
ready to bleed to be forgiven. My therapist
says he’s an alcoholic. She’s probably right,
but admitting that would be admitting
a predisposition that should keep
me away from bars and liquor cabinets.
To be sober is to be vulnerable
and I’m sick of being scared.

i’ll keep his brand,
just because it’s cheaper,
but i’m going back to reds.
i used to hate menthols
and i grew to like them
as i grew to like him;
the mint coated my mouth
and made it feel as though
the smoke was his breath
at the times he wasn’t with me.
i don’t want to remember him
every time i light a cigarette.

i need to find new music
because all I’ve been listening to
has been reminding me of him.
i’ve been crying when
i can hear him singing along.
i even carved hearts into my skin
when crying stopped being cathartic.

i’m tired of everything i do
being connected to him,
so i’m going back to reds.

lucky cigarettes don’t work anymore
and now i’m back to being drunk daily
just like how i was when he met me.
alone i revert back to bad habits
that will soon be more than just side projects.
beer won’t do its job anymore and i’ll be
back to whiskey but i swore i wouldn’t do xanax anymore.

i carved a heart into my arm
because i could hear him singing along.
i look at it and smile as it made me feel.
he made me feel less alone and desperate
and now i’m a loose cannon and a drug machine.
i can’t remember the last time i was sober.

i’m never going to stop missing him.
i might get better but it won’t be soon.
i’ll be dead by twenty five if i don’t
end up in residential.
i was in love and now he’s gone
and i’m completely drunk.

i forcefully chew the xanax into pieces,
letting the bitter taste coat my mouth
as it reminds me of what will soon be in my system.
i let it calm me down as i contemplate more,
deciding on acid instead. god i’m ******* up my body.
five trips in two and a half months and i feel
like this is never going to end.
i’m going to keep buying xanax and i’m going to keep taking it
and it might even ruin my life but i don’t give a ****.
take my fifty and hand me a dozen bars and i’ll tell you
i’m in love. the other night i took some and drank
and my mom was worried but she figured it was
just my medication. i owe you neurotin,
i contemplate my new bruises just as colors
start to dance. i want my love back but
in the meantime, this artificial intrigue
will just have to do. hopefully i live
long enough to see my darling again.