Nothing makes me feel good so
I just smoke cigarettes until I feel worse
Until my bloated face and dark circles
Bother me more than I can remember
how much this actually shouldn’t even hurt
They’re just words,
thick truths revealed
from beneath their dense sheaths,
tumbling out with indifference,
landing bluntly,
rolling clumsily along the crooked,
dark back roads of our sharp tones
and curt delivery.
And so on we go,
every single time
too eager
demons in the night,
drenched and drunk
on our own slime,
fingers sticking inside the pages
of our rule books
for fools who believe
their own denials,
as we push pedal along
this ride to find
that ever-elusive very thin line
From where we can not return,
the starting and ending points
of the exact same lesson
I’ve never once learned,
the spot marked X,
this familiar place
where I’ll stand and dance
and drink and live
and die alone,
smoking my fingers
when that’s all that’s left,
staring down dazedly
into this expensive phone
August 11, 2020
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