i always had a feeling
that i would die young
i brushed it off as paranoia
just my mind being dumb

but here i lie
3am in a cold bed
my body lacking warmth
my head not in the right place

i feel it, a lump
something that shouldn't be there
its painless, and silent
but still an invader in my chest

"go get it checked out"
you said, with an indifferent gaze
then changing the subject
death a topic far from your daze

would you be sad?
or was i always a waste of space
one more mouth to feed
a body to accommodate

would anyone care?
would anything be said?
"she just got a scholarship!
oh what a waste"

i can't help but think
that my bed has been made
and what awaits me,
isn't a friendly fate

for all i've done
on this temporary earth
was sin my soul away
since the day of my birth

i am afraid of what's to come.

sick!!!!!!!!!!!! shaky shaky
can you hear the paper in my lungs
like i can

i can hear it

i can hear it like i hear
the screaming of anonymous
mouths
in my obsessive
compulsive mind
i hear it like the
cries of a pummeled boy
who cries

do you peel skin off your fingers? do you rock back and forth
on the floor in the bathroom on the floor

why am i in the bathroom why did i lock the door????

you run from this i run from this
we all run from this like we run
from uncertainty even when we
make it pretty in our poetry it's
not pretty we're not pretty
there's paper in my lungs.

cut it up breathe it in
listen like paper breaths
sound like violins
what an orchestra these paper cuts
become when you listen
when you hum
and the paper sits in your lungs.