sinking

the tile is cold
on my feet
shaped like moons with holes
everythingisspinning
my hands are bleeding to the rhythm of my heart
I am slurping the coffee cold
And eating kiwis
I plan on starving here.

I don’t know how much more I can take
and I’ve been thinking
if this is how poets feel before they lose it
before they open the bottle
and gulp down the sour whiskey to numb the pain of living.
I want a smoke to **** my lungs first before
I **** my heart.