Something
cold is in the air,
an aura of ice
and phlegm.
All day I've built
a lifetime and now
the sun sinks to
undo it.
The horizon bleeds
and ***** its thumb.
The little red thumb
goes out of sight.
And I wonder about
this lifetime with myself,
this dream I'm living.
I could eat the sky
like an apple
but I'd rather
ask the first star:
why am I here?
why do I live in this house?
who's responsible?
eh?

I've always talked to myself,
but these days
I feel stereotypically crazy
the "I should be locked up for my own good"
kind of crazy.

I don't know how long
I spent in my room
laughing until
there were tears in my eyes.
Twice I made a move
to leave the room,
twice I collapsed laughing.
I wondered if I was actually crying,
But no,
it was laughter.

Laughter,
because my god,
it's all so **** funny.

I counted my Klonopin today.
She told me to ration them.
I took four on one day
three on another,
if I skip a day or two,
I'll be able to take
four on a different day.

It makes sense in my head.

Without the Klonopin,
I'm angry again.
She asks if I'm thinking
about eating today,
"not really idc"
An "I care" response
only elicits
"Sorry about that,"
too much of a coward to say
"That's not my problem"
or better yet,
"*******, leave me alone,
go tend to your partner,
or datemate,
or whatever the ******* call them."
Maybe I don't really mean it,
but there's only
"*******"
in my heart today.

I won't take the Klonopin today
so I can drink wine or a beer
or whatever is cheap.

It makes sense in my head,
as I continue to cackle to myself.

Who the ****
do you think you are,
Kerouac?

It's all a joke to me.
I walk and walk and walk
and I buy a too sweet coffee,
instead of *****,
which I tell myself
I'll buy later.

I can behave,
if I'm in public,
only emitting
a tiny chuckle
from time to time.
Everyone here
is absorbed in their lives.
No one will know the difference.

It's all a joke to me.

In the pathway of the sun,
  In the footsteps of the breeze,
Where the world and sky are one,
  He shall ride the silver seas,
    He shall cut the glittering wave.
I shall sit at home, and rock;
Rise, to heed a neighbor's knock;
Brew my tea, and snip my thread;
Bleach the linen for my bed.
    They will call him brave.

We can’t find each other– it’s
real dark outside,
cool, but not cold.

We will probably regret this by morning, nothing
left but the breath I’m losing. Forget
school; I don’t think I’ll make it home. And when

We have to stop for a breath, her motives
lurk in the air like the cigarette smoke she longs for. It’s 3AM,
late even for us. But

We don’t say much, and look for something to
strike her match with. Now she’s wondering what
“straight” even means as

We share my brother’s hoodie, and
sing anything we can remember. The
sin – or the smoke – dances in the air, but

We can’t tell the difference. This
thin hoodie somehow covers both of us, and I smell
gin or maybe whiskey on her breath.

We have never talked boundaries,
jazz, or those stars engraved on her wrist. I touch one. “Last
June,” she tells me, answering a question I never asked.

We sit for a while. My hand still covers the mark, and she says, “It wasn’t to
die,” but I stay silent, afraid to show her my own faded scars.