There’s a hole where I kicked in the cabinet
and my mother says I’m sick.
I keep a full bottle of my happy pills by my bedside
in case I reach out and take it.
There is food rotting,
I can’t keep my room clean for more than a week
and I can’t remember the last time I changed my sheets.
The thing is, I can make things pretty,
disguise them with allegories, metaphors and use similes.
I can say I am writing in the sky, a love note, a joyful goodbye,
but I am ruining the flesh I wear.
The truth is I messed up my liver with one too many tries,
I live a life knowing I am destined to die at the hands of suicide.
As hard as it is to say,
the truth sprayed with a sparkle of light
the people I let down,
the fires I ignite.
I am a burning candle dripping wax,
God forgive my withering flame.