i can live without my feet. i can live
without anything that makes me carry on;
carry this pretty sweat of life on my hunched back.
every day i wake up and there's a new ache,
a new heartbreak to write about in the diary i burned when i was 17;

when i was sweeter and lighter and thought that drowning would be a nice way to die.

i listen to music to fall asleep,
until i get to the point between waking and the good stuff
when i slam my laptop shut and my brain says
right, now it's time to imagine you're dying, and everyone cares,
everyone is at your funeral wishing they were nicer to you when you cried over chicken breast and were in a whirlwind relationship with iced coffee.

sometimes i guess it's easier to pour the leftover ice from last night's gin and tonics into coffee. sometimes it's best to leave poems unfinished.