millions of red threads
and yet the one that holds significance
tied around the little finger,
hooking me to you.
the red string theory—
fragile, probably a lie,
but doesn't it make you cherry?
 
glitter on my hands,
i'm no angel but i leave behind what i couldn't mend.
it sparkles, everywhere i hold you close—
skin placid, hissing almost under touch.
throw glances, lips curving to a smile,
you're enchanting, flickering alive.
 
what can i help with?
give away all i breathe,
i'll hand over all my pills,
stop injecting myself with words i can't speak,
pause inflicting pain upon scars that you won't ever seek.
 
dim lightning, darkened horizons,
drugged-up eyes, seeing through the glimmer.
my vision fades every time the needle pierces—
through my skin, i feel it pulsing,
leaving behind the sensation that slowly dulls away everything.
heaven and back, while rotting on the same couch,
i breathe in the smoke, ashes turning grey.
my hair sticks to my skin as i sweat through the blaze.
 
rehab never taught me how to exist.
being so undone, the remedy is sick.
prescriptions changing,
seldom any constants.
syringes filled with all that remains far from legal—
they call them drugs, is love any far behind in evil?
 
the kind of touch that leaves traces once it's gone,
hallucinations scripting out desires and thoughts and scenes that couldn't become.
withdrawal makes me crawl, no cure that could stop this spiral.
once the highs have been lived through,
the crash arrives as an aching breakthrough.
 
i cry in gemstones that rest in the corners of my eyes—
sitting, waiting, you can't detach them.
they strain towards permanence every time i sigh.
 
the back of the cab is filled with the blazing neons,
and it drifts through the street laced in LEDs and glistening homes.
i've got a pink heart vision,
the glasses leaving me to see stars on every face that carries
even the slightest seed of doubt—
anxiety etched to the masses,
they still envision.
 
i despise you've brought me back to this feeling—
the one i ran from, escaped, returned only to attach.
got me doing, fawning, sniffing white powder turning black.
 
my phone screen blips, lightning up,
the name repeating as i listen to the night come alive.
i'm too high, way too high to reply.
i tell you i was sleeping,
forgive me for my disguise.
 
cheap—cheap cheap.
i overdosed the wrong kind.
 
i look down at the bill,
see the name that wasn't meant to stay in the will.
the wrong wrong wrong addiction.
you failed me, cursed me, broke me—
it's my turn to accept this affliction.
 
shouldn't have—should have.
don't regret—all i do is regret.
ended, stopped, relapsed—now it's all red.
the stick in white in between my fingers,
lit at the end, vapour rising to the flimsy night air.
i sit on the sidewalk, watch the vehicles pass—
too dazed to care.

i'll stop existing, leaving no traces.
this shirt doing much less to stop the cold as it caresses my skin,
blankets the wounds, takes away all that i fear.
i shall move, get up, throw away the burnt-out ****,
walk away, the bottoms of my converses heading down the road to nowhere.
 
you won't even bother to map out the path.
i just know,
the cruelty and the false lies have long since encompassed you whole.
see what i am,
but you are way beyond my control.

like a car crash,
explosions fill
my head

emotional wreckage—
thoughts tangled
in dread

am i the problem?
or are they
projecting
instead?

i let go
of the wheel

just to
feel something—

go off the rails,
’cause sanity
feels surreal.

am i the problem?
or just
trapped in
my head?

because dealing
with this

is harder
than i ever
imagined.

I'd feel like a stranger at my own funeral-
who's that in the box, dressed better in death
than I ever managed in life?
Better than my quiet attempts-those empty rehearsals
at suicide.

Was this the last chance I had left?
Even in death, my voice isn't heard-
nor the screaming ones trapped inside my skull.
Even my ghost wouldn't believe it's dead,
still hoping the lives I tried to save
might pay my way past the gates,
buy out my debts.

But what if there's no heaven waiting?
What if another kind of hell greets me instead?
What if I never see my old friends again-
never laugh without fear,
never smile without pretending?
What if I never stop
being so ******* afraid
so strangely ashamed
to feel nothing,
to be numb to even shame itself?

All I wanted
was to be born again-
not into some perfect life,
but one that wouldn't lead me
back to searching for another end.
And isn't it strange-
how only in death do we see our regrets
with such clarity?
Because there's nowhere left to run from them
once we get
to the end.