i stand, disoriented
in a drugstore parking lot
the sound of keys jingling
ringing in my ears
like a gunshot.
the car that followed us
all the way
down the road
is now gone.
probably somewhere sleeping
in the midst of midnight
as flickering library lights
with roaches inside of them
buzz like a melody,
repeating over
and over
and over.

underneath me,
i feel the creaking floorboards
snap at my heels
like they're trying to escape the resin they're trapped in,
and i remember where i am.
i think
after all the tears and sweat
and dirt and soap
and cardboard skin
that scratches at my arteries
every time i get out of bed,
where i am
might be the okay part of it.
and i might only think it for a moment,
but i wonder⁠—
maybe the bags
under my eyes
and the scars on my hips
and the calluses on my fingertips
aren't just a burden
that settles between me
and the opportunities
that cut
and bruise me
like a slam to concrete.
but above all,
i hope that this "okay"
is permanent.
and if not,
i'll believe it enough
for it to be true.

i can't help but hold my breath,
because as i begin to trust the clear air,
my lungs only get blacker
                                       and blacker.

i’ve found out
missing the ground
is the same thing as missing the sky.
either way
i always feel out of place.
even when i wake up somewhere new,
i don’t feel refreshed.
i wish i could apologize—
i wish i could breathe again
without feeling guilty.
i hope the bitter taste
in the back of my throat
will go away someday.
but somehow,
no matter how much honey i swallow
it’s still there:
reminding me of how lost i really am.

it’s hard to write soliloquies
when you drive yourself mad