I pull at the loose threads of my jacket sleeves
imagining I was pulling the seams of my stability.
The thought of coming undone is morbidly amusing.
F. Scott Fitzgerald once said that you never get any privacy at small parties, which is why I prefer to drown in the bass of club music,
dim lighting, and a sea of people.
No one takes notice while you slowly disintegrate
into a glass of liquor
right in front of their eyes.
I guess I like it that way.
Leave me to my own devices.
I will destroy myself only to be rebuilt,
like a phoenix rising from the ashes.
Just perhaps not as beautiful,
or poetic.