don't worry, self.
You paint your own hell.
things in the heart best unfed,
unread,
unsaid.

don't worry,
health.
you will bleed ulcers and
insomnia will own your dreams,
screams,
and heart too.

even in dreams, perfection is
a mutation of your fantasy.
weather between legs, like a flash
flood through cotton,
or like blood and *** on
my sheets,
and liking it,
it's hard to tell dream
from memory.

you diagnose, i drown.
only my shell will be found
as i pollute my head will i recover
revoke
repeat.

lungs fill like gills gasping for
water, choke like humans do.
in my mind, i wrote six stories,
half
true, half fiction. and they sifted
and shifted and silenced themselves
into what is forgotten:
Caroline, you are my childrens song,
the dreams undreamed, the eyes of a
love i can't fake. you are the *****
blonde busts and the sugar-coated won'ts.
the enticing do's and Don'ts.
the icing on the cake and the
lather, rinse, repeat.