It’s hard to be your own person,
to move your singular body in its own direction,
when every corner is already crowded by other thoughts.
Your limbs brimming with self-loathing again, brilliant.
Bubbles of spit boasting as they frame your thirsty lips.
You’re picking blood-stained fingernails with yellowing teeth that never knew the curling cradle of a smile.
At a loss for embrace,
Fake hair plastered by stained sweat to your forehead.
There, in the hollows of your forehead, permanent lines appear prematurely, paving the way for the end of your rabbit hole, spiraling.
Head so full of heavy thoughts that your necks snaps.