so it's not that you can't breathe
because you can
it's just that the surrounding air doesn't work anymore
doesn't send you reeling from the sensation of being alive
doesn't fill you, doesn't clear your head

so you can breathe, you just don't
because it doesn't seem to make much of a difference
your lungs filling with useless stuff that almost makes you even more light-headed

the sound around you is muted, near-silent through the pounding of blood through your ears, your veins, slowing, stopping, speeding, and then slowing again.

light crawling toward you
as though streaming through water to reach your immobile body
you can see it shifting, moving, waving in front of you, and it doesn't help that your pulse is gone, searing your eyes and throat with the awful vividity of it all

it doesn't take long for it to overwhelm you
light too bright against your eyes that can't focus
sounds too loud and thick against your skull
blood pounding and not pounding in a quick succession that makes you question the veracity of what you can hear
it doesn't take long to overwhelm you
you, the stranger in unfamiliar coffee shops days in a row
the stranger switching from hospital to hospital
hotel to hotel
you, the stranger, sitting rigid in the comfortable train seats, leaving one town, and approaching another so similar
that you have lost the ability to tell the difference

it doesn't take long to overwhelm you, but when it does, everything slows to a deafening stop
dragging out the infinity and making you wait
you've always hated waiting.

you're sitting on your bed
lights off and
curtains closed and
the carpet illuminated through the cracks in the door
so it's night, but you're not tired, you're not,
you're thinking
daydreaming because your mind is in control
you hope, but its not doing what you want
and everything is falling apart
all frame-shifts and flickers of deleted data
and **** this
because honestly
what's the point.
if it doesn't work then it doesn't work
and you can't fix this, we can't fix this
it's broken and it'll stay that way
don't you dare try and put this back together
you ******
don't you dare
because you put everything into this and i did nothing
i don't deserve you and
you don't deserve this
this shattering illusion of happiness
bright memories and lovely thoughts
because everything is just waiting for the metaphorical black cloud to appear
because everything is just a clusterfuck
of bad emotions
well

well, ****.
this was supposed to go differently, i swear
not in a different direction, just...
just less harsh
see, look at that
i just **** up everything i do
see, this is why this is a problem
see, this is why you need to leave

the room i am staying in
carries the noticeable smell
of whiskey
it is nearly overwhelming
and the first time i walk in
i double over
unable to breathe
but over time
i become used to the cold floor
and the acrid smell
and the dusty windows
and over time
the only dishes used
are the glasses
which i fill with whiskey
and it seems far too soon
that i become the man in the room
the man passed out drunk on the floor
on the couch
on the bed
and it seems far too soon
when i become the man in the kitchen
staring out those dusty windows
drowning the day in liquor
drowning my day
it is not that i am sad
it is just that i have little to hope for
i am not like the rest of you
intelligent
or athletic
or handsome, even
and it seems far too soon
when i become the man lying in the casket
in the ground
eternally staring at the epitaph that
supposedly describes my life
cheerful
it tells a tale of the beauty of life
and now
lying in the grave
the only thing i find the time to care about
is the epitaph
what total ******* *******.

the clock is ticking on the mantlepiece and the house is empty and cold
it is dark, and the dogs are barking and i can't think, oh god, i can't think, because the world is imploding and the clock has stopped ticking and
it has been silent for a while now
there is no reason to panic,  I tell myself,  no reason at all
but this is a lie and while it might help me breathe better,
it won't put the bullet back inside the gun
it won't force the words back down my throat,
or put the glass on the floor back together
the walls are on fire and the glass is sizzling, and red-hot
the smell of blood - yours, probably - is thick and strong and metallic
the walls are on fire and i can't think, can't even breathe, because the smell of blood is,
quite frankly, overwhelming.
and then i blink and i'm back here, in the kitchen,
and you're staring at me like i'm something interesting,
like i'm not a worthless scrap that the dog just brought in,
but i can tell something's still wrong because you're talking but the words
don't quite register
and then everything comes spinning back to earth, and you're still talking
only i can hear you now
and you're telling me that it's not okay, it's not right, you've had enough and you're leaving now
and it only takes me a moment to realize
that the whole world is currently wearing a plaid button-down and old jeans with
a hole in one of the knees
that the whole world smells like apples and laundry soap
it only takes me a moment to realize that the whole world resides in a three pound brain piloting
rather attractive meatsuit
it only takes me a moment to realize that the whole world is walking out the door
and that he probably isn't coming back

the warmth of your arms
of your body pressed flush against mine
comfortable and easy and very perfect
it's more of an idea now
trapped in a corner
cold
and alone
i wish you were here, sweetheart
because it was you
and me
and maybe someone else
i don't remember
because you told me it wasn't significant
and i trust you
trust
trust
but **** if i don't know what you're up to anymore
you left, so i shouldn't still be keeping tabs on you
but what's a guy to do
i really did like you
love you, even
your warmth
your personality
the way we fit like two ******* puzzle pieces
i know why you left
it was you who was perfect
not me
i should have known, **** it
i should have known that it was the idea of warmth
not warmth itself.

it is midnight, and i am lonely
perched near an open window
looking out into the city
full of strangers
pulsing through the streets

it is midnight, and i am lonely
the cool air striking my face
as i listen to the bells chime
and count them
one, two, three, four, five
and it is only when i get to twenty-seven
that i realize i'm doing something wrong

it is midnight, and i am lonely
laying on the worn mattress, thin bars pressing
into my back
staring at the cracked white ceiling
making constellations out of spiderwebs
and generally thinking about nothing

it is midnight, and i am lonely
wandering the empty streets of Harlem
plastic bags fluttering by
someone screaming
and me, walking

it is midnight, and i am lonely
standing in a large crowd
telling a joke and gesticulating emphatically
wiggling my eyebrows when i get to the funny part

it is midnight, and i am lonely.

windy
and a long way down
the people pulsing through the streets
unrestrained

there's traffic
and cars honking
and all i can see
is life
movement

there's people
below these skyscrapers
that are alive
and have things to hope for
and i am not one of them

windy
and it's getting dark now
and i'm almost out of whiskey
so it's now or never
before i loose my nerve
before the reckless abandon stops coursing through my veins
before i forget why the hell it is
that i'm up here in the first place

the bottle clunks on the ground
hollow
completely empty
and i knew i should have brought another with me
or maybe picked a taller building
but as it is
there is nothing above me
all else
is below skyscrapers
all else
is tiny
and insignificant
and selfish
and **** it
why not
just
jump

windy
fast
unbreathable
cold
sharp

below skyscrapers

it is cold, and you're walking, and you can't see your feet
you're numb
not just your face and hands
but everything
detached
unable to distinguish from emotions now
and emotions then

you're walking down the road
and the stars are shining
headlights flying past, rocking your body
threatening to pull you under and break you,
crush you and your mind
and everything else

you're walking down the road, and the moon is low and dark and the sky is otherwise empty
lets say that your eyes are closed
but the drivers eyes are also closed
in the car behind you
and you, perched precariously
toe the white line between death and a dirt road

everyone, it seems, is waiting
for something unknowable
a feeling
a thought
a pat on the back, signalling that everything's okay
everything's allright
it's just fine
go back to sleep
ignore the questioning looks and just
relax

the man in the tan trenchcoat is looking for you
his brothers, his family
disapprove, but
why not
you're not a  bad person
after all
you've done bad things, yeah
made bad decisions, yeah
but overall
what's so bad about sleeping in hotels when the back of your car
is not as comfortable as it looks
so you're desperate
and he's desperate
and you keep missing each other
the looks and idle touches
while comforting
scare you
you are not a  person who feels
so you cannot feel the stubble whispering over your skin
and you did not swallow openly
and stare across the tables as his blue eyes watch you
he doesn't judge you
and for that
you love him
wait.
no.
you don't love him
because that would be wrong, and decades of reinforcement are telling you this
but honestly
if he just loved you back...
there's that word again
the lights over the Arby's are hovering 100 feet above the ground
and you're freezing and alive
and maybe you wish you were dead
but you're not
and that's what really matters
probably
you hope.

you're stranded
miles away from the only good thing you know
so tonight, by the roadside,
you close your eyes and listen to the sound of cars
roaring past
rocking your body

you imagine the city lights
the walks at two a.m.
you imagine it all
and somewhere along the way
you end up in the middle of the freeway
legs and imagination running wildly
both feet pounding on pavement breath short and fast vision blurry horns blaring headlights flashing past swerving away from you in consternation

somehow, you are by the side of the road
miles away from the only good thing you know

you know the men that are holding you down
you have seen them before
buying beer
leering at whoever passed by
and now, one of them
smashing his fist against your face
your teeth
nose spurting blood
the others are laughing
taunting
holding back your arms and hurling insults

your face is numb by the time they've finished
the front of your shirt saturated in your own blood
they ***** you
but all you do is fall to the ***** cement and curl into a ball
and they eventually lose interest
in sliding their hands down your pants
so when they walk away, you tell yourself
that you're not going to cry
because experience has told you
that tears only sting your broken nose
and make the stains on your skin more noticeable when you rub off the blood
at two am
staring into your broken reflection in a ***** mirror and hating what you see

so you're sitting on a bed
it's not yours,
because the wallpaper around you is yellow and stained

you checked into the hotel at three in the morning
with a pretty boy and the promise of something that night

the sheets are crumpled around you
a pillow on the floor
and he's sleeping next to you
looking five years younger and
his hair is crumpled in a halo around his head
you're not lying to yourself
you know that you picked him up off the street after handing him two crumpled twenty dollar bills
he's here for the money
and you,
well,
you don't know why you're here

lying back against the yellow pillows and breathing deeply
hands resting on a sweat-stained stomach
and when you look over
his blonde hair is moving with each breath
mouth agape and
a light dusting of freckles over his nose and cheeks
and while the sound of night and car horns permeates the room
the illusion that all is silent and still
and that the world is waiting for you outside this bubble of *** and safety
exists only in this dark room that stinks of sweat
and sounds like the shallow breathing of two miserable men

the low buzzing of the radiator and the strip of light from the underside of the fridge are the only illuminators in the room

his breaths lull you to sleep and when you wake up
it's only you in the bed with the afternoon shadows looming over you with a sudden finality

you don't see him again on the streets of new york,
or in the dark, grungy alleyways of the underside of humanity
and you can only hope
though why you bother with this teenage boy adorned with freckles and blue eyes
well
you don't know

in the dark of the classroom you can't see your scars
and neither can anyone else
which is the important bit

the teacher droning on and pointing to the big screen that dominates your life

you hope that it gets better
idly scrawling notes and drawing images of what you imagine to be
a less painful existence

it's not that you're depressed
more disillusioned
because the teacher doesn't stop
and the assignments don't stop
mountains of work that you don't plan on completing
and students whispering either insults, or-
you don't know what
you don't know them
you don't want to know them
they're all empty eyes and spitballs and legs that trip you in the hallways and fists that have made their mark on your mouth and eyes
bruises that take weeks to disappear
and that teachers ignore
they ignore
your sleepless eyes
your swollen lips
your bloodied cheekbones

the boys that trip you in the halls
that call you a freak
a ***
that pin you against old metal lockers
and choke you
whisper in your ear and force you down on your knees
you don't know their names
they don't know your names
they know you only by the terms that you've come to know as endearments

(you hate them
you hate them but you can't make it stop)