You kiss a lot of people that taste like anything but home.

Street light stars flicker above you

the blue filter over your skin makes you look a little less sad,

a little more drunk.

You fill yourself up with the saddest things;

Of people that slow your pulse down,

that sharpen their teeth against your bones.

Of a churning sea of clear *****,

waves breaking over your rib cage.

Of thick smoke that makes your lungs feel like silk,

that make your fingertips dance across the thin line of what feels like forgetting,

and what hurts.

But you’re running out of things to make yourself feel better,

and the more you hurt yourself 

the less you are inclined to hate him