My nights have gotten longer, my body no stronger. A foul air soils my apartment, stale cigarettes, my beer breath. Sleep doesn't bless me unless my brain is tricked, altered. Faltering footsteps due to shin splints, a spot of blood on the white wall by my bed from my arm. I gave up ****** harm long ago, or so I thought. It's just different now, I don't cut or burn, but I get drunk and fall, let people put out stoges on my back, fist fight for fun. Jeff said I'm a *******, and **** maybe I am one. I'd say I'm a mess even though I'm on track, pay my bills, work hard at my job. Hell, to the rest of the world I'm on my way up to the top, but to me...to me I'm a hazard, a ***** mop, a wreck. All I can think is that my own hands are getting tighter and tighter around my neck