i'm alive.
i'm sixteen and smart enough to have realized that i am never going to be as young as i am today.
i am roughly five thousand four hundred and eighty days into my life & i know that that number is never going to get any smaller.

just in the same way that i had my period two years ago & the doctors say
"rooke, it may come as a bit of a disappointment, but you're probably never going to get any taller"
i'm going to stay four foot nine.
and just because that number signifies that i can't ride a roller coaster at six flags
doesn't mean i'm not going to have a good time.
because i've got other things going for me.

i don't wanna overdose on anything
unless it's
**** & confidence.

i think i like vomiting because it gets my
insides out.
i don't have to scream. i don't have to shout.
all i do is drink.

i dislike attachment.
conformity like the majority of the rest of the level-headed, well-rested.
i choose not to be particularly interested in anything related to the correspondence of two human beings.

i aspire to write great poetry,
where words carry the remains of the inconsolable population inked with misery.
i've bathed in the conclusion it's the only factual part of me.
concrete & sturdy.
practitioners drain me of life then use my own words to keep me strapped & straight on a gurney.
& then they carry me away.

i won't deny the fact that i've indulged in their words.
pulled myself up off the ground and shook of the ******* absurd kinda whatever-the-**** they throw at me.
and although i've dipped my toes into the negativity, you're crazy if you think i'm planning on playing the victim.