I don't really write anymore.
I don't know what to do with myself.
I wake up alone
every day
but I never felt it so much as now
there is nothing to be said
about the sunlight or the swing or the porch railing
but they are my new homes.
sometimes
I fuck around
with people I pretend to know
and then I pretend
that it doesn't matter.
I go on silent rampages
of self abuse
I imagine I’m screaming
screaming
screaming
but I never am.
sometimes
I say I'm angry
when the truth is
it's just easier than saying 'I don't know.'
for such a know-it-all
I say a lot of I don't knows.
I have too much nothing inside
and I take care of things that
don't matter to me.
I turn off lights
and write lines.
sometimes I don't eat
just because I’d be empty afterwards anyway.
when I think of you
sometimes I smile
before I bleed knuckles
again.
