i am a bad artist
my body is a vessel for emotion that nearly never gets opened
and when it does, it's confetti blown from a sawed off shotgun
but for now, the safety is on
and little pieces of colored paper decorate my sleep in the form of nightmares
putting my finger over that trigger feels a lot like losing control
i am powerless
fighting fire with gasoline in a house i live in, alone
i am alone
because the people who taught me how to love do not love me and that makes me
lonely

did it ever occur to you that maybe i'm exactly where i wanted to be?
years and years of self destruction in hopes that i'll eventually be sick enough to take the medicine
sick enough to be bed ridden
mother in the chair in the corner of the room, praying for me
calling all the doctors, saying "she needs help"
but i tell her im sick and she says "i need help"
and i don't know how to get well with a hypochondriac

they told me to use sage
cleanse my soul, my environment, my headspace
and i agree with them because i don't know how to say that i'm already clean without having to explain that i've taken 2 baths today
and yesterday

lately i just can't seem to find my faith
i think it may have gotten lost somewhere between the hotel, three different therapists, and the letters i get in the mail from a team of people that want to know my truth
my truth?
well i apologize, your honor, as my truth is
an ocean, a non-linear mass of blue, only 5-7 percent discovered

i guess what i'm trying to say is

i am afraid
that when you ask me to take the safety off and pull the trigger
i'll forget how to aim