bittersweet

fade in: i’m the main character in a teen movie. and i live in a third person paradise, where someone else is always looking out for me. and i’m brave, and pretty, in an effortless kinda way. i stand up for what i believe in. i scream until my lungs bleed out. i make the right decision.

and when i’m lost, i dream of cityscapes, and burning nights, finger on the pulse. reminisce about the good days, when i don’t doubt these hands are mine. and when the world goes silent, sometimes i like to sneak out after dark, and swim across a monotone sky.

i pretend it’s bittersweet; make poetry from this bleak desert wasteland, but no turn of phrase will ever make it pretty. because death is not a friend, it’s not an enemy. it doesn’t give a shit. which is worse, honestly. because i swear, i feel it watching me sometimes like an unpaid debt. i think i’ll bide my time. smell the roses, and get old, or whatever people do.

but my wrists murder me, and the chords ring out fuzzy, the pasta boils over on the stove, and i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry. in my head there’s an angle here, a narrative, and as the world burns a part of me is already sitting at my desk, 1:25am, trying to make the lines fit together, like pieces in a puzzle. remember those?

remember swingsets and naivete, and whole world i can’t control? i don’t miss it. i just wish it was different, you know?

inertia

my wrists snap, and crackle like the static on tv. i scroll through amazon for hours, looking for some miracle cure i can’t afford, to give my life meaning.

and my stomach churns, and my hands flap around aimlessly. i overthink what i see in the mirror, until i don’t know what’s left and what’s right, and it all just sorta blends together. so i run for my life, and i crash into the ground. nick my finger on a bread knife; wake up feeling like i’ve just come back from hell.

and i just kinda… sit there for hours. splash my face with cold water; brew some more tea. scroll through instagram, and daydream about money. about having an apartment, and i don’t know, paying my bills? filing my tax return, putting on some songs, and making myself a mediocre dinner. maybe going on a late-night run to a nearby costco afterwards.

because it means i’m okay. it means i’m all right. and maybe the stars are fading away, maybe the traffic lights flicker and groan, but i survived. and that’s all i can hope for, you know?

and tired, and sad, and cold are not excuses. i have to keep going, i have to do this. but i just can’t stop scrolling. or watching sitcoms on my phone. i collapse on my bed, and wrap myself up in blankets, wishing my ghosts could just leave me alone.

i push a broken car up a hill, all on my own. chug three cups of coffee on the long drive home, and fall asleep at the wheel. the sirens pulse as it all fades out; this can’t be real…

hurricane

i throw a temper tantrum at absolutely no one, alone in the kitchen with my uncooked pasta, and my canned vegetables. because i can’t do this again.

so i run the red light. so i’m late for work, so i’m running out of time, just like always. so i write on the bus, and watch couples come and go from the corner of my eye. they’re lost in their own world.

and i’m walking home on a cold autumn night, to watch sitcoms until 1am, and forget about my life, because why bother trying when you can’t win, right?

i stare wistfully at the new apartment buildings. squirrel away my earnings, and write my will early. check the news nonstop, and no shit i’m angry.

because the sunflowers are wilting. because my bones breaking away. and you lied, didn’t you? all those nights ago, when you held me close, and promised it was gonna be okay?

and now i’m alone in the kitchen, while the hurricane hits me. you call my stubbornness a gift, but it’s not, really.

eulogy

i write myself a love song, but it’s always about you in the end. about your christmas lights, and your weathered smile, about a thousand fever dreams drifting through my head.

but these eyes watching me; they are ruthless and bleeding, so i shut my mouth, and i blend into the the crowd, and i guess i let a bunch of strangers control me. like their puppet on a string, their favourite new instrument, or should i just call myself a plaything?

so i go home. i lock my throat inside the closet. i drink rainwater from my favourite mug, and the acid burns my tongue. you know i eat that shit right up. let some crazed-artist fantasy worm its way into my skull.

i make a necklace from teeth. live off strange conspiracy theories, and broken glass. believe me, i don’t understand it anymore than you do.

so i go home. and i write myself a river; craft a bridge of tired metaphors and panicked similes. i build skyscrapers in my mind, colour in the lines of a bustling metropolis, all on my own. and one day, i’ll dig myself a grave; build a coffin from strangers’ bones. i’m not a good person. i know.

but please, weave me a breathtaking eulogy. imagine something better, and craft the prettiest fairy tale from whatever is left of me.