you cannot help but hate your body
the gangly limbs
the stomach that sticks out entirely too far
the freckles that dot your face
you ******* hate yourself
every mirror you look at is a reminder of what a total piece of **** you are
so when you start to float, it's a relief

the feeling of not being you is something entirely new
the arms that are not your arms
legs that are not your legs
eyes that you can't see through

and better
you aren't a ******* girl anymore
this is always the worst part
you can ******* deal with everything else
you can
but not that

because you are not female
and you know this
except
except you are

the binders lying on the floor are telling you that you aren't actually
they love that word
actually
shout it in the hallways and whisper in hushed conversations that they know you can hear

actually

the sensation of being ripped out of your own skin
and then
calm
then
you aren't you
so you're happy

you can't not be happy when you look like how you actually ******* feel

the sensation of being ripped out of your own skin, then
isn't bad
because it's not your skin anymore
it's that freaks' skin
you're not a freak

right?

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.

there is someone on the other side of that camera
watching you
and if they can read your body language
(bottom lip in mouth, hands ******* an oversized shirt)
then they can also read everything else
(hair twisted and knotted around itself, tie hanging haphazardly off your neck as you clutch at the pack of cigarettes in your pocket)

you have a hard time hiding these things

it's not that you hadn't enjoyed it, per say
trading ******* in the men's bathroom
back pressed flush against the grimy stall
it's just that you had somehow imagined *** with the man you loved
to be a little more...
glamorous

at night, with the light off, lying next to a warm body
hands that are trying to get into your boxers
you don't push him away
because even though you want to
he's your lover
and you feel like you're supposed to let him
so you do
and when you go to work the next day,
neck and collarbones lined with bruises,
you try to tell yourself
that you enjoyed it

you fail at that

when your co-workers ask you what's wrong
you shrug them off, and tell yourself that you should be blushing
when they congratulate you on finally getting some

it's not that you don't like it, you tell yourself
as you **** him off in the shower at 7 in the morning
it's just that you're too tired to appreciate what's going on

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)

the radio is thrumming in the distance and you are measuring something
its scientific
so you don't bother to explain it to me
because we both know that i won't understand it
and i'm okay with that
because i am more than happy staring in wonder at you
perhaps it sounds cheesy
that's okay, because it's sincere
and you know this

the radio is listing random numbers
as always when it's not tuned to my voice
and the sun hasn't set
but that means very little, because the sun has not been setting at the right time anyways
not that it matters, since electric lights were invented some time ago

you're leaning against me
and smiling
and i am carding my fingers through your hair
and its lovely, it is
because this moment has not yet ended
and while it is nice to have memories to look back on
its never quite the same

it must be heaven, i think
because i am not used to acceptance
not even in such a strange town as this
i am not used to acceptance and while i am okay with this
its nice
to have someone know your darkest secrets
and stay by your side
it make you feel worthwhile

before i told carlos - beautiful carlos, and he's mine -
i was worrying
my mother
before she died
told me many things
most of them to do with my death

but also
some things that are a little more meaningful
and sitting here with my carlos
i am reminded of what opposites they are
carlos
has always accepted by glowing tattoos that sometimes
when i'm not careful
morph into tentacles that snake their way around his arms, holding him close
he may have been a little annoyed when he couldn't sleep
but it wasn't my fault
he said that
very emphatically
and it was very kind
it's never my fault
he said
when someone bad does something bad to you
and that
has made all the difference

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.

you
you think this a lot
with emphasis
a one word blame
disappointment, you suppose

but you don't think it at other people
oh,
oh, they're fine.
its you
because what the *****
is wrong with you

you still haven't figured that bit out yet

bit by bit
you lose yourself
things you were
things you did
they're gone now
maybe you remember them
maybe you don't
(you think you don't)
you think there used to be so much more
but now
now it's just you
waiting in the parking lot
pavement cracked and covered in chewing gum
the lights flickering
like fires among the rows of houses
flickering like candles put out in a rush during a black-out
and you're staring at these lights
waiting
watching them flicker
flicker
flicker
until its the
last
light
out

you don't notice the pitying looks until it's 9 in the morning and you're halfway done with your third cup of gas station coffee
you barely even notice it then

so you're dragging your feet across the pavement, eyes mostly shut, carrying a briefcase in your left hand and a scalding cup of caffeine powder + water in your right
it's not that you're tired
you manage to get a good four hours most nights
it's that you cannot focus
everything around you is more than a little blurry
red edges on your vision and shadows somehow pixelated

you're stumbling across the street when you realize that somewhere along the way
you managed to finish that third cup
and your hand is uselessly gripping empty air
it falls to your side
and it takes a few steadying breaths to deal with the headrush that always accompanies such a revelation

you have an agreement
but you don't know who with
it's someone you met years ago
in a hospital
eyes bright and idealistic

you don't remember the agreement either
but it was something important
and you remember that

that's what matters, isn't it?

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.

do not go into dark alleyways
with doors falling off the hinges and cigarettes littering the street
do not step over puddles and slide your hands across the filthy walls
covered in graffiti and scratched-out hearts
do not turn your back to the exit
and be so naive as to assume
that you are safe
do not go into dark alleyways
there is nothing for you in the pitch-black of the roads in between separate worlds of hurling bottles and angry words
do not go into dark alleyways
there is nothing for you there

The lights in the auditorium don't turn off
you know this because you can see them in your head
constantly
flickering slightly and keeping you awake

bright lights that blind you
make you sick and create the hopeless feeling that just doesn't go away
that settles over you and
crushes your lungs

it could be years
but you don't know
all you can see is the bright lights of the auditorium
as the blood drips down your face and onto your shirt

as the blood seeps into your clothing, plastering itself to your skin
as the heartbeat in your ears slowly turns into the only thing you can hear
as your eyes glaze over and you fall to the linoleum floor
unable to breathe

so it's not that you're dying
i mean,
you are
you are, but you're already dead

the lights in the auditorium are blinding you
and you can't move
and you can't speak
and sooner or later, the whole world turns down

turns down the sound from the outside
and the lights that seeped into your eyes
past useless eyelids
so that's it

it's a small and utterly worthless
gas-station trinket
pretty
and it reminds you of them
and for a second you can't help but want to buy it
and give it away
in the hopes that it will make everything alright

and then, on your way home, when you come face to face
with them
and their desperation
and you wish that you had bought it so there'd be something
to stand behind
cowering
unable to do anything but
plead silently

and years later,
and you wonder
if you had bought it
would it have fixed everything?
anything?
would it have repaired a soul

it's two decades since you saw that thing in the gas station
and life still hasn't moved on
well,
it has
but it hasn't
because you're still thinking about that *******
piece of plastic
and you just can't get it out of your mind
and you're buying beer
and you look to your left
and there it is
slightly modified
a bit beaten up
but the trinket
almost certainly not the same one
but this time you can't help yourself
your grab it off the shelf
and purchase it
for 99 cents
and you wonder why you didn't do that the last time around
it fixes nothing
absolutely nothing
and you didn't expect it t
but it's there
and they can see it

a small token of how ****** life has been
because that's life
slightly modified
a bit beaten up
but the same
for everyone
just the same

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 ******* *******.

when you look back at your life
you won't remember any of this
not your first cut
nor your last
so you search
for people like you
people with scars
and for people who cover them up
who can't sleep
for people who hear voices
ones that tell them
to just man up and die
you search to prove your innermost suspicions wrong
you are not a freak
not alone
but you are
alone, i mean
and a freak, too
that's why people avoid you
cross the street rather than pass you on the sidewalk
they can feel your fear
your inability to trust
and it is because of this inability
that you loose hope completely
you can no longer trust yourself to function
it is because of the standards of this so-called
"Normal World"
that you do these things to yourself
Normal people feel pain
a kind of pain that you can't really relate to
(We Think It's Because You're A Freak)
it tugs at you
and you cannot bear to let this emotionless life define you
it's hard to say no to Being Normal
if you feel pain, after all, you are Normal
but you're wrong
it doesn't make you Normal
neither does dying
dying makes you dead
and despite the 170,000,000,000 accumulative body count,
dying is considered unnatural

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

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

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

you are sleeping when it happens
bright lights flashing overhead and
the metallic clang over the din of explosions
its brights and it reminds you of a green lawn and
fireworks bursting overhead and you’re about to slip back into that memory
when you remember the scent of blood thick in the air and
the muddy trenches and
the screams
and now you’re frozen
now you can’t move
you’re terrified and lying still
and then
that’s when you hear it, the
grenade, hurdling towards you and
your eyes are shut tight because you didn’t know what you were signing up for
honor and fame,
they said but
you can feel the presence of the explosive
as though it’s the only thing in the world that matters
and suddenly
everything starts to go fuzzy around the edges,
all bloodstains and yells in the night and in the midst of it all
you are dimly aware of the red leaking from your chest and
dribbling out of your mouth

you begin to lose consciousness soon after this
and all you can think of is that you wished you’d seen france,
outside of the war
because you’ve got a family back home, and you’re desperately trying to think of anything
other than this
anything at all
your old house in iowa
roughhousing with your brothers
and now everything really is blurry
outlined in dark, pulsing red and you start to feel warm all over
and you’ve heard about this, you’re dying and
oh, god
oh, god
you’re dying

the world doesn’t stop for you, you can tell
everything keeps on going, the battle around you
soldiers falling into the trenches, blood spurting in all directions and
now,
now you’re calm
now you’re settling back into the mud, breathing still laboured and erratic but the pain’s gone
and all you can bring yourself to think about
is the fireworks
in july
colorful and bright,
you’re in that world when it takes you

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

it is exactly 3:26 in the morning
and i am a mess
there is blood drying on my face
my nose partially crushed to the right side
a bruise darkening my left eye
my wrist appears to be swelling
possibly broken

i just stare down
at the ground
as if that will make it better
it doesn't hurt, not really
i mean, i've been in fights before
i know how to handle myself
and i know how to handle loosing

it is exactly 3:26 in the morning
and i am a mess
my posture is slumped
and my eyes are empty
completely devoid of anything that even partially resembles hope
my jaw is slack
and numb
and all i can think about
is how completely ******* stupid i was
thinking this could ever actually work
my mind is tired
and possibly broken

it is exactly 3:26 in the morning
and i am a mess
i have work in four hours
and a meeting with my boss about my chronic absence
and i need to clean my house
and make coffee
and fix my face and hand
and do laundry
and make myself look some semblance of alive
and working
and i can hear the people in the apartment above me
laughing
drunk, probably, given the current time
and i need to make my life less lonely
less ****** up
because i'm possibly broken

the sky was dark
and it was cold

that's all anyone seems to remember
there were sparks flying from the sky
like comets
trailing bright lights behind them

i was in a chapel
old
rotted
and, more importantly

empty

not of people
or objects

hope

everything was empty

the sky was dark
and it was cold

and there was a weird feeling going around
like something terrible was happening right under our very noses
and we couldn't stop it

the sky was dark
and it was cold

and i was outside
confused
laying face first on the dead leaves
given up

i ****** up
i ****** up bad

look at the sky
look at the angels
falling

one

by

one





f
a
  l
   l
    i
     n
       g

like comets

i ****** up bad

i'm empty

running on nothing now

want to scream, probably
but there's monsters here
and if i scream they'll hear me
and catch me

and i don't think i want that to happen

the sky was dark
and it was cold

and, ****, it's pretty out

bright lights streaming from the sky but no
because i know what's going on

it's not pretty
it's painful

i don't know where you are
and it frightens me
that you could be falling

i need you

i remember saying that

i remember what happened and i remember how ****** up we both are

well, i'm only human



and i guess you are too.

the fall
that's all i remember
a sudden shove
and after the initial shock registered
all i felt was my arms and legs
cartwheeling
trying to find purchase on a surface that was not really there
and then



and then this
not really sure how to describe it
oh, people have tried
for millenia
the feeling
that everything's a dream
everything's an illusion
a fake
and it is because of this feeling
that i am certain
everything is deadly
and real
and it won't go away

the fall

when they run out of questions,
they generally revert back to one single phrase
worded differently
with different intonations and in different accents
did it hurt
was it painful
did you feel betrayed

i didn't feel anything
i couldn't feel anything
because nothing was real

don't they teach you kids this stuff?
this is important, right?
why don't you know this?

everything stops, at one point or another
everything ends, and then begins

cycles repeat
and repeat
and repeat

and i wait

of course i felt betrayed


...



i'm only human...

the people around me
forget
after a while

everything

i tell them things
and they forget

they tell themselves things
and they forget

the city
bustling
movement without abandon
no-one has tried to restrict them in years
and they celebrate it

by restricting themselves

so i wait

it has been such a long time now

it has been seconds

it has been decades

it has been an eternity

and i wait

so you're walking down the cracked paved road
lips numb and huffs of breath escaping through your nose
your hands are in the pockets of a large yellow hoodie with bloodstains down the sides, clutching at a crumpled ten dollar bill and shaking

so you're walking down a road
but you don't know where you're going
the feeling of not here so abstract
that you can't help but laugh at yourself for thinking that this would actually work

you know how other people see you
a small boy with a baggy sweatshirt and a mouth that tastes like coffee and cigarettes
it seems, recently, that everyone knows exactly what you taste like,
mouths pressed to yours in an effort to make the minutes stop
so you let them
because you're running out of time
and you figure that you should take what you can get

but sometimes, you're noticed,
even the feeling of a body pressed to yours, blood singing in between the ***** sheets of cheap hotels
even the thrill of easy *** cannot diminish the feeling
of a crushing weight upon your tired shoulders

your world is ending
and you know this
and you're having a hard time carrying on

the red on your wrists
is very bright
and blatant
in its attempt to
attract my attention
there are thin lines
so straight that
i think you may have
used a ruler
as though the
destruction of your
own body
had to be perfect
and precise
and painful

they say that you have some rare
hard-to-pronounce disease
and you don't
but the doctor's kids
are dying from something real
and he needs the money.

the subway is dark and cramped
fluorescent lights dim under the thick smog that shouldn't be here
your legs lock up
sudden
and then nothing
then only nothing
you don't come back until you're at the hospital
eyes bleary against the white light and yellow walls
as they press an oxygen mask against you
you can't help but wonder how you got here
here in the antiseptic dreams of cancer patients while you stare at the cracks in the ceiling
it's not that you can't dream
it's just that you don't
here against the black lights with pulsing music
here against the knife fights in dark alleys
you dislocate ******* and enjoy the pain
you chain-smoke Marlboro's for an hour and a half
and by the time you've finished two packs your head is spinning and you can't think
you scribble on a piece of paper until you can't move your arms and the ink bleeds through onto the kitchen table
you can't breathe for three days and when you can again
the doctors tell you that there's something wrong
you shut your eyes and you forget how to open them
i.v.'s appear in your wrist after two days and you keep taking them out
at your funeral, you can't hear the songs they play
because you can't breathe inside that wooden box
you can see the stars flickering above you but your eyes are shut
you stop being able to remember the third grade
suddenly nothing
and then only nothing

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.

the worst thing in the world
is waiting
and expecting nothing
and even then
being bitterly disappointed

the worst thing in the world
is having something you care about
taken away from you
with no chance
of getting it back

the worst thing in the world
is knowing
that everything is not hopeless
but bland
and hollow
and that your life will never be even a little bit
interesting

the worst thing in the world
is wanting to be with someone
but being unable to tell them
that you would really like their company
and knowing that they think you don't want them here

the worst thing in the world
is the world
and knowing
that you live here

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

where do i get off
everything is moving
and i can't seem to get my head on straight
the grey sky above me
melting into the glass buildings
steel spikes growing out of the bone-dry earth
in your world
it's whiteboards covered in scrawling green text
in your world
it's not what you'd thought
the air around you so tangible that it chokes you
closes your throat and eyes against the pain
in your world
you can see the people
like insects
crawling the streets from the view from your apartment window on the 80th floor
in your world
the glass doesn't warp against the night sky freckled with bright lights and falling bodies
in your world
it's not the nausea that tears against your consciousness
it's more the darkness
it's not the desperation
it's the calm
beating it's head against your bathroom wall and saying over and over
over and over
over and over

in your world
it's the cigarettes at three in the morning
and after that
at midnight

you stare at the clock for six hours straight
but the seconds don't stop

the microwave beeps all night long as you stare at the blank TV screen
but the seconds don't stop

everything's wrong, i swear

it's off, somehow
the sky is falling
to pieces
and i've no way to fix it
just stare up
and wait

leaves swirling around
the light sound of rain hitting the earth
and i'm waiting
for a bus
a taxi
something that will take me where i need to go

a pencil tapping on the desk
everyone's looking out the window
distressed
and vacant
if it's possible to be both

the sky is falling to pieces
and everything that should have happened
will have to wait
and now everyone's saying what they meant to earlier
when it would have made a difference
and now maybe we've got something to work with
not that it matters

because haven't you heard
the **** world is ending
run to the bunker
now's not the time for a last goodbye

run to the bunker
run and hide
and try to pretend that everything's alright
pretend that you'll survive

that's what's kept me going all these years

pretending i'll survive

it's violent
as most things are
yelling and screaming
and you expected this
of course you did
it happens every time
and you know this, you do
so you expected this
but you did it anyways
threw your hands up to protect your head
your eyes
curling into a ball and waiting for it to stop
and it doesn't stop
the blows keep falling
and you're still sitting there
petrified
and useless
****, that's what caused this to begin with
useless freak
this is all your fault

the blows keep falling
and the moment doesn't stop

the boy in the laundrymat wearing ***** pajamas has a split lip and two dark circles under his eyes
you try not to look at him as he fumbles coins into old machines and trips over his own untied shoelaces

the man ahead of you in the supermarket checkout line
pauses briefly in the unloading of his grocery cart
to leer at the cashier, a young twenty-something with green eyes and a bruised cheekbone
you pretend not to notice the quiver in his hands as he scans item after item,
wincing at each beep and trying to look smaller,
trying to shrink into his own skin

the teenager in the subway is standing weird and you notice that he is attempting not to cry
the tears come anyways, and as he makes small choking noises,
you look away and stare out the scratched windows,
tunnel walls scrolling listlessly past as the boy wipes his face with a ripped sleeve

the sounds coming from the alleyway leave nothing to the imagination
you keep walking, even as an older man emerges from the dark, zipping his pants
you ignore the hushed sobbing, and as you crawl into bed that night
you can still hear noises that make you gag

you try to tell yourself that you did nothing wrong
but you don't succeed

it's not as neat as you'd hoped it would be
not as clinical

when you left the hospital, they'd told you that it would be difficult

you hadn't believed them

but now, as you stand under the harsh spray of the shower
under water that's been cold for an hour now
you believe them

you'd felt like you'd been choking
air thick with steam and
some form of unhappiness that just won't go away
so you were choking
but you wouldn't leave
eyes shut tight against what you hoped wasn't there
leaning against the white tiles lining the wall
barely breathing
but now
as the ice-cold water hits your face and chest
you're not breathing at all

it's too painful, you'd told them
but they hadn't listened

the crushing weight of this anxiety
that you can't get rid of
keeps you from turning off the shower and stepping out

it ends with you shivering against the floor
rigid from the cold
but at least you can't think anymore
at least you can't think

there are certain things that you need
and i am not one of them
and that hurts

so it's not that you can't think
you can
it's just that you can't think clearly about anything that matters

it's cold, all the time
you notice this
the numb hands and the
constant shivering

so it doesn't get any better
because you're just as scared
and it still hurts
but you keep hoping
'cause they said
they *promised

you've been feeling weird lately
like it only works when your eyes are shut tight
like it only works when your head is in your arms and you are fending off tears
its not that you're tired
i mean
you are tired
its just that you're not only tired
its everything else
its the fact that you've got nothing
so when you close your eyes and fall onto an unmade bed
it feels just a little less ****** up
you can't not, really
because the only place you exist is where you are
here
in a room smelling of cigarette smoke and city air
the floor covered with clothes and paper
books with the spines cracked
you can't not, you've decided

it's been raining for days now
you like the rain
the bleak skies and the calm
the solid rhythm that makes the voices go away

you've always like the rain
the lack of people milling about

so you've got the street to yourself
and you're staring straight ahead
not focusing on anything
not thinking about anything
its no wonder that you're off track
lost
still wandering
not like you're going anywhere
anyways

it's silent
and dark
and then the feeling of someone forcing air down your nose
forcing air down your throat and burning
forcing light back into your eyes and you hate this
****
there's a reason you did this
there always is
you swallowed those pills for a reason
jumped off that building for a ******* reason
and now
well
you pitched yourself into the churning water
because you ******* wanted to die
and the only reason you're conscious
is because they - whoever they are -
do not seem to understand
that the world is better off without you

you suppose you'll have to try it again

it's you
laying on the twin bed
arms folded over your stomach
humming along to music turned on in the background that i can't hear

it's you
in the car
driving slowly, arm splayed out the window
talking quietly, but i'm too focused on the moment and i miss the words you say

it's you
staring at the mirror
and hating what you see, glaring at your reflection
like there's something inside that repulses you and i can't help but wonder what you're muttering at the glass

it's you
inside the mirror this time
and i can't reach you
and i don't know why,
i can't hear you,
can barely see you

it's you
not that i can tell but i can
i mean
it's not me anymore that's for certain
that much i know - that's the only thing i know
it's me, on the ground, body crumpling onto the pavement in a circle of blood
splayed awkwardly and pale and lifeless

it's me this time

the feeling of an empty and churning stomach
- empty because you don't want to eat, don't deserve to -
- churning because you took too many pills and you are gagging and bent over the bathtub -
but that comes later
for now
you are leaning against the bathroom wall
cold on your cheek and it seems to stop the world from spinning
it's the only thing that stops the world from spinning
so you hold on

the light is on in the distance
writhing under your unsteady gaze and existing in another place
everything is a blur of porcelain and blue skies
rolling and twisting and
the sound of a knock on the door
that upsets your existence to the very core
you ignore it
and dread another

songs on the radio that you can't stand
that make you switch stations and then cringe
when you realize that it's on every channel

you start the car but you don't drive anywhere
just sit in the darkness, listening to the low rumble of the engine and
shrink under the sick drowsiness that permeates your every memory

you can't move
but you're okay with that