|i bust through the fence|
like some dying ******* dog.
rust bites my skin -
i don’t even care.
glass and needles
smiling up at me,
begging me to fall.
|i do.|
face to the dirt.
blood running like it’s late for something.
but me?
i don’t feel a ******* thing.
not till later.
not till i’m already gone from there,
and everything i touch -
shirt, pants, face,
all of it -
is screaming red.
but **** it.
you’re still dead.
and no cut on my body
can scream louder
than the hole you left.
|crawled out|
through a hole even smaller.
left skin,
blood,
pieces of myself behind.
got on a tram -
eyes burning through me,
faces like empty plates,
staring.
i hide mine.
hide it deep.
jumped off at the next stop
before the world could eat me alive.
friends waiting.
questions.
questions.
questions.
couldn’t answer.
couldn’t even breathe.
one friend -
the only one who knew better -
wiped the blood off me
like i was a broken kid.
and that’s when it hit.
not just the blood,
but the real pain.
the gut pain.
the soul pain.
all of it crashing down,
ugly,
loud,
final.
i cried.
|i ******* cried.|
then we ran back to the city,
where the bottles don’t ask questions,
where you can drink yourself
into the dirt.
i drank you away that night.
or tried to.
but ghosts,
they don’t drown easy.