Post Published: October 30, 2022

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

Tell me what you think before we both die