i swore i’d stop writing about you
three poems ago. i swore i’d stop
hurting myself but i’m bleeding again.
i swore i’d move on and not look back
but i almost called you last night.
i never swore i’d delete your number.

where did you go?
what drove you away from
late nights smoking in my room?
you’d always play my guitar.
but only knew the beginnings
to most songs; i still
tried to sing along.

i’ve been drinking again and
it’s not your fault. *** washes
away the scars you left and
keeps me from thinking
about all the flaws you
could have been running from.

i’m hanging up this line for good.

i toy with the idea of
buying a bus ticket to
somewhere on the west coast
to a place i would be new to
to a place where i could be
as invisible as i like
i don’t know what
is stopping me from
being a burlesque dancer in
Portland but I keep spending
my money on cigarettes and
**** and all i do is
smoke and cry and love
and i need to get out
of this house that has become
such a miserable place to be
such a miserable place to live
but when it comes down to
it i’m more likely to
**** myself than flee

waiting for my dealer on the bridge
i open my second hand copy of American ******
for the first time in two years.
i forgot it opens with the gates of hell.
nihilism is seeping from the pages
just fueling my own drug addled reality
that doesn’t quite seem to mimic ‘real life.’
itake my meds twice a day but only
in the mornings do i get klonopin,
the best drug i’ve been on since
my Ativan privileges got revoked.
i used to do Xanax but that’s another poem.
Bateman does a lot of *******
but i’ve only done that once,
and it was just parental leftovers
so i don’t know about good
bathrooms to do coke in,
but i know about popping pills in front
of the mirrors, professors in the stalls,
before class, just to keep me going.
my suicidal intent has turned into hedonism
and i am living for pleasure and i find comfort
in knowing i will die, likely by my own hand
but even then, Bateman makes one thing clear:
This Is Not An Exit.

I fell in love with
a life so outside
of my own head;
I never know what
I want these days.
My thoughts scare me
so I tune them out
and try to live hedonistically.
When I am alone at night
I am left with them
and my arm often
ends up in tatters.
I don’t listen to myself.
I don’t know myself
and I don’t think I want to.
I exist only in relation to others
and my ignored thoughts
will torture me in death.

rite aid was out of maverick red 100s;
they only had shorts.
i had to buy a pack of newports
and the thought of shedding you
made me tremble as i slid my card.
yes, i switched from your menthols
back to my reds and yes, i kept your brand.

the other day i walked into my room
and the scent of cigarettes took me back,
back to the times of us sharing cigarette
after cigarette and i began to cry.
i called my therapist but she didn’t pick up.

the thought of quitting smoking crosses my mind
on at least a weekly basis, but i refuse to let you
ruin an agent of death i held in my hand
even before you came along.
i will not stop and i will continue to shed
the strongest tears for you.

i can’t remember the sound
of his voice when he
told me to stop crying.
i know it was angry
but i can no longer hear
the inflection that made my heart
drop, my pulse speed up
because in that moment
he was my father.
in that moment i was scared
and shrunk away from him,
but his arm acted as an apology
around my shaking shoulders.
my dad never apologizes
after he makes me cry.
He stayed up with me that night
and i cried in his arms until six am.
the pack of cigarettes we had been sharing
was gone by sunrise.
i no longer remember how
that display of love made me feel wanted
because now i am left with a benzo haze
over the fulfilling moments, and a
clear recollection of the times i was hurt.
but i cut our cord and buried it in the sand
and i no longer feel the burden of love.
i no longer feel the burden of loving
and am back to shake alone at the thought
of my dad raising his voice.

in a workshop i wrote
about a boy who kissed me
after i told him not to.
in the piece i called
myself Clementine.
admitting that i was
kissed without permission
seemed so much easier
than not misgendering myself
in front of fifty people.