I suppose you could call me the epitome of destructive.

Number insides;

I am lighter fluid and absinthe.

All those whom I look forward to,

Perish at an age no older than 30.
Sunken deep by the crippling bones of creativity.
Why must creative convert to gloom?

Would you call yourself the poster child for anti-depressants?
When was the last time you held the shards in hand

and looked upon your perfect skin with tremors?

Just dying to let the living out.


Sit perched to the moon awaiting a calling

that came in a figure of an *******.

Sometimes I speak to you of my troubles

Just to know you’ll get off my back.


Do you know if it wasn’t for your slippery hands
trying to mumble their way through steel caps

I might of died that night?
Inches away from the edge
you crudely pointed at your own meter
that ticked against the pavement
awaiting pennies to be dropped.

You’d offer your calling card of cannabis and magic fingers,
line the body with your palm
and hold it against the skin.

Tell me I was beautiful just until the hand hit 10

and you’d say
I was the epitome of destructive.