between murky gray undertones,
the day unfolds before me
like an old, yellow envelope
held in the creases of my palms.
washing my face in the gas station sink,
my stomach goes sour.
sitting idle in the repeating weeks,
i ask:
is this what i'm living for?
neutral toned sweatshirts and
bitter coffee that stains my teeth?
maybe i should stop asking.
after all, i am so incredibly tired.
i light my last cigarette,
and walk my last walk home.

but the thing
that really blows
is that i know i'll tell them everything.
i'll never dare to say it,
but it'll leak from the seams of my palms,
sewn together with thread and fabric,
tracing shapes,
weaving in and out of insanity.
my mouth will shut
and my eyes will close
but i know in my bones,
i'll bleed
       bleed
           bleed.

when i answer your calls,
all i can hear is static.
and i wish i could change it,
but my brain was rewired
and now i'm unable to differentiate your sentences
from the background noise that only gets louder
and louder
      and louder.
i hope i can hear you clearly again,
but every pin pricking spiral
is buzzing on my skin
like the sound of static is infecting my body--
every phrase,
     every thought,
            every whisper
will end up blocked out while i'm blacked out,
repeating over and over
in a cycle of misunderstanding.

it hurts so bad
and i'm trying to fix it
but creeping up my throat is the ghost of myself
waiting for my body to drop like a ragdoll,
tumbling to the ground like i weigh nothing.
this demon has infected my bone marrow,
and my teeth are rotting in my gums.
who knew it would end like this?
fighting with myself
for control over this body
that has now grown to be meaningless--
rust in my bloodstream,
pills in my mouth,
nothing but a bother to the earth.

watery cardboard brown eyes
blink wearily as the subway doors close.
the lights flicker as those eyes shut--
knocked out cold
like the newspaper concrete underneath sneakers.

through water and soap,
i hope that one day
that shower floor won't feel familiar.
i hope that tracing the cracks in the tiles
with my fingers
won't feel like a filthy soliloquy.
i hope it won't feel
like a hymn i must keep to myself
and never let me leave my silent state
while dusty figurines
and sewer rats stare
as if i'm some crazy man on a subway
who won't stop yelling
about aliens or some ****.
but when it comes down to it,
i hope i can feel the water
run down my skin
without the memories
of the cold, hard tiles
beneath my feet.
and the lights will turn on
and i'll see everything the way it is
i'll be whatever i am
with water in my eyes
on my skin,
on my hands.