Men. Boys. Small obsessions.
I want to be free of them.
Of me?

I get too drunk too quickly. Too excited.
A sloppy kiss in a badly lit kitchen can unlock something deep inside me.

A flicker of waking desire.
Nothing tastes better than a secret.

Nothing better than the soft touch of the lips you are supposed to stay away from.
I trace my fingers over the questions he smeared all over me.

Always cold and restless. How can I stop it?
Do I want it to stop when I’m this young and problematic?
  
Hungry for emotion, I want to get drunk off others' lips.
I want to wander in the drunken haze cloaked in the smoke of gossip.

A word from him. Hell of a digital rollercoaster.

I am easily hooked, always happy to surrender. Does he want me enough to keep me stable for a few weeks?

Do I love him? Do I hate him?
I only need him.

Is this inspiration or pure desperation?
Should I be grateful or furious?
For now, I am both.
  
Is this the burden of inadequacy that comes with being a poet?
Are we the most shallow of all?

What if this tumultuous destruction of my fevered ***** mind proves itself completely pointless?

I am made out of buzzing question marks.
  
My heart is on the verge of exploding.
My stomach is corroded with terror.
I can only handle this much.

I can’t do this anymore.

This is the best thing that has ever happened to me.