The cars roar past as each part of my mind erupts to wage a familiar war.

There is a certain air of romance in walking alone down the side of a busy street at night with my mind spilling out of my ears.

By romance I mean the beautiful and ringing dissonance.

                             ( the intriguing option of death if I step to the left or the warm promise of safety if I keep to the right)

I let myself get wrapped up in my own world and forget how easy it is for everything to change with one swift movement.

As I shuffle down that street with the fake light of streetlamps warming my back I continue to walk forward, in order to avoid the making of any decisions.

But that in itself is a decision, and my feet begin to stray.

I keep to the right, like I always do.

But I’m now forever wondering what could possibly happen if I stepped to the left.

I am an individual who is
Involved.
When asked by curious critics “Who are you?” I’ll invariably state,
Involved.
Involved, Busy, Stressed.
Involved.
Involved is an activity, is a stressor, is a blessing, is a curse.
Involved pleases my parents.
So long as
Involved is within the parameters that they have set forth and therefore approved.
Involved is enriching, ensuring, creating my path to freedom even if my future is still shrouded.
Involved is my choice of poison.
Involved is my choice of passion.
Involved is my sweet drink of hectic relief.
Involved is me.

Je suis malade


Je suis fatigué


Mais tous ces maux stéréotypées pâle en comparaison de la douleur creusée dans mes os qui restaient quand vous avez creusé ma moelle et m'a laissé sans une greffe


Je suis fatigué


Je suis malade

I’m so very tired of imagining all of these false scenarios.
They’re all in my head and of course all about you
I just want to hold you
touch you
feel you
Kind of like that blink song but I don’t actually want to ever blink because every time I close my eyes I see your face.
I don’t even know who you are.
You’re just a passing face.
You’re just a figment, a pigment, a wigment of my shattering mind.
There’s nothing I can do besides pretend my sanity.

Hugo told me that within a writer is contained a world.

You don’t write anything besides grocery lists on the backs of stained coupons.

That must explain why people tell me my eyes are old souls, but say that yours are barren.

I could stare into them forever, not because of beauty, but in fascination, for I’ve never seen any pit as black as those eyes.

Besides your soul.

Of course, I’ve only ever viewed your soul when you pass out with Jack on your breath; with those scared, scratched, scarred fists finally flat, and you let your borders down long enough for me to see.

I open my old eyes and see that the pit continues from your sockets down to your toes.

Sleep does nothing to change the fact that you are empty, devoid nearly of life and meaning.

If I’m not careful I’ll be ****** into that pitch.

Mother always warned me that the brightest burn out the quickest, so I should keep my light away from you. Really, I’m tiring of being careful.

There is a bit of beauty in the dankness of your despair, but I’m tired of romanticizing your illness because all it does is make me sicker than this chemo ever has.

Stop burning out my light.

hands shaking
knees like rubber
pulse in my throat
heart leaps out
dripping crimson
falls to the floor
past my rubber knees
and shaking hands
to lie there dead
turning cold
no longer in pain
but forever in regret