i eat my grin and my stomach still growls, it’s hungry for love. i chew off my finger nails and swallow them to pick my teeth. i say ‘say ahhhhh’ in tongues.
i tell the cops i’d stop dragging my drugged feet if they’d let my hands drag through the mud too. a sort of camaraderie.
i take the wasp spray and target my shirt and huff hard enough. afterwards, i don’t feel a buzz.
they ask me why i haven’t been taking my meds. i tell them i take after i give, and laughter is usually what i offer them, which they take as an insult.
when the doctor comes to visit, all i hear is “it’s knife to see you.” and my stomach wants out. surgery is not the part where they take something away, but rather when they put the emptiness of living back.
remember all the games we played? you all were so ahead of the shame even though none of us could help ourselves.
if i could beg a favor, i would beg on my needs, without fear or forgiveness, to call it a night. but it has to be the last.
there’s a farm that hosts swing dancing lessons in the ballroom. we all watched the guests from the bushes and i felt my moods winning first place.
i drilled a peephole into my wall and wait at night for an eye to fill it, just to feel a change of seen.
i fill up the glass until i taste the rose tint. it’s thorny but i’m guaranteed to make my bed in the morning. my one regret in life is that i have known someone else’s primrose path.
knifely put. give me the nice back and i can prove all the questions you've been dying to ask.