This person smiled at me and said thank you
in a way that really struck me: that face, that face gone forever. even with some paper what am i gonna say. Small nose speckled with freckles, brown hair, plaid shorts, sympathetic eyes (imagination)?
but that person isn't the point.
Trying not to make myself the point either, but what're ya gonna do. not you. not ya. not anyone
what i am gonna do to stop making myself the point.
"live your life like a satire"
"You were fucking 17 you piece of shit."
The world swirls
friends and friends but no confidants
everyone's loyalty is split
away from you, but you told yourself twice this morning, in the mirror (movie worshipping fuck) that that's the way it should be.
And a statement
Like That. And somethings circling the drain,
Everyone knows you know how to kill yourself.
If you really wanted to kill yourself, you would have to kill yourself.
yet there's a compulsion to the thought. Like counting sheep.
I know, you know, i know how to count sheep. so i
i won't explain.
because i can't.
Til i get that notebook, those pens. when i close
my eyes and it is not (it is not)! a the fear of a flashing cursor waiting for my instructions
but a wrist dangling on the loop of a cursive q,
and in the text is what i am
and the thought disappears into a scribble
until i can bear the text.