She said she was *****.
And didn't know where she left her needles.

So I hung out in the kitchen.
Where I could see everything.

Trying to score dope.
In this *****'s house.

With a friend.

Now begins the bare essentials.
Of keeping myself alive.
It takes three days to die.
Of dehydration.

A month.

For food.

The truth is usually.
Muddied with pride.
Exageration.
Hyperbole.
And lies.
But, mine.
Is unbelievable.
Atypical.
And, extreme.
Why share what no one will accept?

I came in on a monday or a tuesday.
I blew in with the wind.
Some seed who drifted into the imagination.
Of some woman.
Who shyly followed me around.
Waiting where I used to be.
To talk.
About something or whatever.

I just never came back.
I was blown with the chaos in my mind.
To go somewhere else or wherever.

I leave the abominable destruction.
Of what could have been.
In the minds of strangers.
Who are always cautious.
And never felt this before.

I have that impulse to scream.
To cry.
To get lost and caught up in that.
Explosion of emotion.

But, I don't.
I can't.
I turn it off and recede.
Into my schizoid understanding of reality.

No one notices me.
On mute.

Which is good.
I can try not to eat.
Or drink.

I don't have.
To be a disappointment.
As I rot alone.

Have you heard this before?
I'm so complicated.
I'm so complex.
I'm so hard to understand.
I'm just a vague nothingness.
That I write with words.
Expressing nothing.
But, my lack of originality.
My reliance on the emotion.
Of poor punctuation.

Maybe if I think through a thousand ways.
Of saying this.
I might find the one.
That's always right.
Instead of a stream of consciousness.
Designed to help me think.
Through a thousand ways.
To say this life.
Just, isn't enough.