these nights are better spent my lips your lips & why do i still bother with pretense why can’t i say i need you at three in the morning, eyes red & raw with tears, fingernails scratching my skin to a mess of ragged lines?  the pain of missing you is not poetry.  as the moon waxes & wanes, i count my days in photographs & little blue pills but surviving is hardly a victory anymore.  at almost nineteen, you’d think i could live with myself by now.  or would have at least learned how to eat pancakes for breakfast without shuddering & seething into a breakdown.  they should have locked me up years ago & held the key hostage until i proved i could deal.  medicated me until i couldn't over-think, but me, i like my mind static over gossamer sheets of oblivion, i like my cheeks wet & lungs gasping over clouds of apathy.  some days, i fall in love with my disorders.  some days, i want to cut their gory innards & watch them bleed out on my bedroom floor.