we huddled in a catholic school bathroom stall
comparing cuts like baseball cards.
we were gluttons for sickness- furious with one another for their weakness
and jealous at any wounds wider than our own.
they were cigarettes.
and i was a master of myself,
i was the best- i was
pretty girls fell in love with my destruction.
the car crash, the charred hulk frame
of absolute metal hollow; something that once was but is
no longer there.
there are things that i do not tell to anyone
like how i trace myself and the fibrous tissue weighs me down more than i pretend
that it does and
i talk of this to people but i do not feel it anymore and i do not know why that is.
on tuesday nights i occasionally
smell hot heavy blood.
in it's torrents, in it's mass quantities, i see a
sewer pump draining, i see 3 and a half ruined
i bet they were rust-red in the washing machine and i bet my mother
cried into her crinkled hands.
the noose broke so we turned into branches and leaves and wonderful things of
the roots formed of their own accord and
i am no longer magnificent,
yet they still think i'm the best.
depression is an excess and happiness is a void of
the most overwhelming empty.
i am a radient vacancy.