Gravel night, nails on a chalkboard,
two styrofoam lids rubbing against
each other in delicious dis-harmony.
I wouldn't call what I do coping.
I thought the truth was buried
somewhere. I dug up your grave,
looking for something real.
Dead bodies are real, but that doesn't
make them any less dead.
Rope around the wrist, risk surrounding
whim, and the resounding yes.
*Just wanna get you drunk off solitude,
want you to know what alone feels like.*
I tried to find the more human parts
of me, tried to construct a person out
of the fabric, and spent too much time
threading the damn needle.