i am split between barely-different
desires, or rather,
equally-addictive inclinations:
you see, half of me wants nothing
but to strip away the sticky sweet
self-hatred, just say fuck it
and be happy/
relive the day-after-day
same sensations, but this time
enjoy them freely, without the hesitation
usually harbored within,
fed again and again;
the other half of me wants to live
sort of slovenly: one day, purchasing
scarves and layered plaid garments,
hiding behind charcoal eye liner
and perhaps a full sleeve
of amateur ink (tree leaves changing
into full-piece stories);
half of me hates me, and the other
wants so badly to grasp hold
before I tumble full force
into the cracks out of reach from the future
created for me, by me, waiting
patiently.