the sun sets quietly,
as if it’s tired of being seen.
I wonder if I‘d do the same
if I could.

it sits in the closet,
folded like a bad memory.
I haven’t touched it in years—
but it touches me.
every night,
every time the air feels too heavy
against my skin,
it comes back.

his hands.
God, his hands.
they were everywhere,
moving like they owned me.
they gripped my hair—
tight, pulling, claiming,
and I can still feel them
dragging across my cheeks,
brushing my lips.
it wasn’t gentle.
nothing about it was gentle.
they pressed into my neck,
lingering too long,
and slid down to my belly,
my thighs—
fingers greedy,
leaving trails that still burn.
it wasn’t just touch.
it was a stain.
it sank into my skin,
and no matter how hard I scrub,
it won’t come out.

that night,
I slept on my friend’s couch.
I curled up,
a shell of myself,
and stared at the wall.
they didn’t ask
why my voice was quieter,
why my hands were shaking.
I wanted to scream—
but the words felt
as useless as I did.
I just laid there,
praying for sleep,
praying for silence,
praying for the memory of his hands
to let me go.

but it never does.
his touch is still here,
woven into the fibers of that shirt,
lurking in the shadows of my reflection.
even when I’m alone,
I’m not.
his fingerprints are on me,
inside me.

and the shirt—
I can’t wear it.
every time I try,
it tightens around my neck,
like he’s behind me again.
it doesn’t feel like fabric anymore.
it feels like him.

I want to throw it away,
but I don’t.
as if keeping it
keeps it real.
as if throwing it away
might make me forget
that it happened.

but I never forget.
I can’t forget.
because he’s still here,
in the way I flinch,
in the way I avoid mirrors,
in the way I still
can’t breathe.

The world’s a lot less kind
than I thought it’d be.
But I‘m still here -
broken, tired,
with a grin on my face
and a smoke in my hand.

it starts with the ritual—
the line drawn neat,
a surgeon’s precision,
your hands shaking
but steady enough
to carve the moment.
the dollar bill rolls up,
tight as your chest,
your lungs bracing
for the burn
that always comes
too fast,
too much,
but never enough.

it’s like snorting the edge of a knife,
sharp, raw,
your brain lights up,
every nerve screaming
hallelujah
and oh, God,
at the same time.
your teeth clench,
your jaw locks
like a rusted door.
the world is too bright,
too loud,
but for a moment,
you are invincible,
a God
built on powder and lies.

then it settles in—
slow, like regret,
like a lover slipping out
in the middle of the night,
and you’re left
with the silence,
the empty mirror,
the body you no longer own.

you tell yourself
you can stop—
later.
next time.
tomorrow.
but the tomorrow you picture
isn’t real.
it’s just another lie
you snort,
crush,
chase.

the powder doesn’t fix you—
it just smooths the cracks,
fills the holes
for a moment.
but you can feel them widening,
feel yourself
slipping through,
and still,
you go back,
because at least the fall
is familiar.

Some people glide through life—
clean suits,
straight spines,
their hands untouched by the dirt
we call home.

And then there’s us.
We shuffle, we stumble,
we laugh too hard at bad jokes
and spend too long staring at walls
that don’t answer back.

Our lives are broken bottles
held together with tape—
still sharp, still dangerous,
but ours.

And if we ever make it—
if we ever find a way to rise,
we’ll leave claw marks on the edge
to remind them
we were here.

the night pressed in,
heavy and mean,
the way it always does
when you’re sober long enough
to feel everything you’ve been running from.

i sat in the kitchen,
a cigarette burning in the ashtray,
the smoke curling up
like the ghosts of all the things
i used to believe in.

there was a cockroach on the floor,
big, slow,
moving like it had seen worse days than me.
i thought about smashing it,
about what it must be like
to live your whole life
dodging shoes and poison
and still keep going.

but instead,
i opened the window,
watched it crawl out into the night.
then i crushed the cigarette,
and thought:
maybe that’s all there is—
just figuring out
who’s worth saving.
and hoping someday,
it’s you.

the alley smelled like **** and failure,
the way it always does.
there was a guy slumped against the wall,
his face pale,
his arms full of track marks.

i lit a cigarette,
offered him one,
but he shook his head.
“trying to quit,” he said.
i almost laughed,
but didn’t.

he looked at me,
his eyes hollow as an old shoe,
and said,
“you think it’s worse to die slow
or fast?”

i didn’t answer.
he smiled anyway,
and said,
“doesn’t matter.
either way,
they still call it living.”