i had an idea for a poem, but i forgot what it was. i guess i just… lost it, like my will to keep going, so now i’ll just scrape along painfully, like a flat tire down a long, dusty road. and hold out one day longer in the name of a stupid, aimless hope.
i had an idea for this poem. i knew exactly where i wanted to go. and i should have written it down, gotten it inked onto my skin, because i know it’s not the end of the world… but it sure does feel like it, ‘cause i’m dizzy, and i’m tired, and i always feel sick. so i worry, but i don’t show it, just put myself high up on the wall like a trophy.
i sit still, and smile vacantly; take it all in. i’m calm, and collected, until when it actually comes down to it, and in the moment i’m needed most i shatter like fucking ceramic. i wasn’t raised for failure, i was raised for a purpose. and i don’t know what’s happening, but i can’t handle it.
and there are a thousand versions of myself that came before, and each one of them haunts me in the night. with their half-mangled words, and their mutated fingertips. i think i’ll join them, someday, no matter how hard i try.
because there is a better version of me, just waiting to be found. with her shiny hair, and her glowing eyes. she thinks she’s perfect. thinks she’s got it all figured out.
but i don’t. so until then, i’ll just have to settle for burning this whole place to the ground.