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Confession #327

sometimes it hurts to keep my eyes open because the longer they stay open the longer things start slipping away and the longer things start slipping away the longer i feel that i’m wasting it all or that life has no meaning which feels entirely too true to handle when you’re just laying in bed hoping to achieve something but you don’t know what and you don’t know how to achieve it or if it’ll make you feel better that things keep slipping away from you and that almost everything is always out of your control.

Los Angeles, I miss you.

one of my feet has toenails too long
the other is trimmed just right.

i’ve been sexting lately. it feels like i’m pulling the covers off my soul and wondering if i made the bed a mess or if it’s finally accessible.

i overthink everything.

my friends are disintegrating into cyberspace. i still haven’t opened my suitcases from LA.

i’m dreaming of tomorrow, 
of 17 days,
of new beginnings,
of the unknown possibilities that spring up from nowhere
because i dared to dare to dare.

In Brooklyn

I left your ass in Cali
but I still can’t shake you off
my shoulders. So, you hang there.

In Brooklyn, I’ll get my fix.
You will be stumbling on
white little tippy toes
till you trip, and fall flat
on your face, in a thrifted
ill-fitting pants suit.

Who’s laughing now?

Still not me,
I’ll be in Brooklyn; smooching
on models - writers, actors and other artists - whose aim
is to make sense of themselves in a world without meaning.

Confession #326

I ache to slit open the last bit of heart still beating. If I had the option to, I would suck up chimneys of cigarette smoke and wreck the last of the lung tissue that has finally started to heal. I would have gladly fucked it all up hours ago, if I’d have crawled my way to the bar like I was supposed to.

There is no one in this goddamn city worth a batted eyelash. Ugly and wrinkled up, toothless and brain dead. Tonight, I’ll be browsing OkCupid profiles in states that aren’t mine; wishing I was sooner dead than single. Then as it gets later I’ll self-indulge in shameless masturbation until my hands cramp up.

What’s left of this summer is a generous amount of pain and suffering. I can’t change the fact that there have only been tears and temptations for the last two months. I have nothing to offer the citizens of Indiana. It’s like they want to be painfully bland.

What would it take to get a goddamn slice of the pie? I’ve been sitting at the picnic for nearly four goddamn years. Just because I don’t want to eat shit off the floor doesn’t mean I want to fucking starve. Is that what life is? The option to eat dirt or starve? I wouldn’t discount it. Life is a cruel joke. It is meaningless and tempestuous and lengthy.

If I had any guts or sense I’d end it now. 

Sacral Chakra

When is it my turn?
I ask in a whimper, as I masturbate on the linoleum bathroom floor.

I’m glad you’re happy and all but I want a chance to come over and lay in his bed, running my finger across his scruff and then teeth.

- You kiss the tip(s) of my finger(s).
I want to travel the world on camelback with you;
just the two of us drunk on every pretty pleasure in the world.
There will be nothing like our love and my belief
must carry on till the dawning door unlatches. -

I beg to see myself as others see me.


You sick and pathetic woman!
Your dramatic sighs make me shrivel up into thin air.
I have always been a deformed sprout because
you scoured the gardens with pesticides since the moment I touched soil. I never had a chance to bloom, let alone see blue skies.

I give up this time. I mean it.
The devil never lied even half as much as you do;
long apologies that could sweep the Academy Awards.

And I accept them all blindly, openly, my red cheeks stained with tears as I bellow my forgiveness

That feeds you like a cruel joke. You’re a fat pit bull on concrete scarfing down vulnerability in a rusty metal bowl.
You crafty, greedy bitch. You know exactly how to get me.

You disgusting insipid! Get away from me!
Your kind belongs beneath the sewer sludge.

Eat shit and die, cunt. I’m done.
Your next apology will be the paper for a blunt
and I’ll smoke away into cloudy nothingness,
remembering how our feud is nothing more than a petty conversation
made to pass time until one of us passes.

See you in hell,
or Christmastime,
whichever comes first.

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