when you wake up every burning morning with your head laying splattered on the linoleum tiles beneath you & the soulless remains of your eyes mock your reflection in the mirror & you think you’ve tried everything, pills, syringes, exposure therapy, fried egg sandwiches, drowning yourself in barrels of stinging arsenic, making out with the gilt-lipped boy who nicknames you the grim reaper - & of course nothing has worked so far, so you brush your teeth, you avoid brushing your hair, you paint your lips whatever color hides the cold rot of your teeth & you go about your day, which feels like simulating a stab wound, a skien of moonlight skittering between your toes, overripe cider bursting in the gut.
lies: every inch of you. it’s true, you think. some people have nicotine circulating through their veins, you are every brick a delusion. you think about malicious summers, the corpses of fireflies dropping from the smog-licked air, your mother’s voice like sugar rimming a fancy glass, your face in the toilet bowl, your knuckles whitening against the sides like icing, your lips sour from all the invective bullshit that falls out of them, you punch the mirror, you stub your toe, you repaint your nails, you sing yourself to sleep, you are an angel of industrial strength, you are an abandoned temple, you are the algae that smothers the sea rocks, you stick out in nobody’s memory, you don’t even know what you’re doing to yourself anymore. so you slap your skin. it’s wrong, it’s wrong, hello? something’s definitely fucking wrong here! your skin doesn’t slap you back. your own body has tried to run away from you on multiple occasions. you are a mosaic of despair, sad, fossilized little moth, destined to grip for all the light it can never devour, destined for ragings of darkness.
(so maybe sometimes recovery’s a needle through your gums).
so this is the part where your lips turn into twin cigarettes & the world asks for your forgiveness & then your best friend reminds you that the world doesn’t owe you shit & you complain about it for 2.5 hours before getting bored & giving up & going back to praying to god in an empty room from beneath a ramshackle skylight, where the still bodies stutter & the ocean’s ceramic gleams & the sky laughs at you & you close your eyes & cross your hands over your chest & wait for your life to change from the safety of this four-walled concentration camp.
do you wish you were dead? asks the moon.
i just wish i’d never been born at all.