you'll hate it here.

from the hospital room to my doormat and back to the days when we walked hand in hand through cold days, i haven't felt this way before. i can honestly say that i don't know what to make of it.

"what the hell have you got to look forward to? i don't hear anyone knocking at your door."

i feel meager and cheap for no real reason, lost not really looking, breaking down, desperately searching for up, empty names in an address book, dizzy, taps beneath my fingers, crushed cigarette butts, sticky with guilt, racked with anticipation, neckties a bit too tight, invisibility waning, foolish and small.

blinking lights in front of my eyes and scar tissue six feet deep, i don't think i can really do anything. my attempts are half-assed. my heart not nearly mended. breath still sputtering everything i mean.

"haven't slept for days, and my words don't seem to come out right."

boy once told me that if you don't sleep for 72 hours straight, you are declared legally insane. well, sugar, sign me up, because here i go again. i've been drafted to this army of duct-taped soldiers trying to keep their own at arm's length, holding close and far. insult's adding to injury, sustaining this blood flow out onto my hands. but isn't it a pretty shade of red?

god, where do i get off?

third floor. you know my hell, it's the fifth door on the right with the hinge missing and the doorknob that sticks, only when you try to lock it. incense and poetry readings in dimmer light with coffee brewing and the faint whines of air conditioners breaking.

i've thought many bad things today and yesterday, but there's hope for tomorrow, right? civil mindsets and babies giggling to scream, i can't fucking wait. no, really.

so what happens when i cross my own sights, when that locks on me? blubbering and wasted, i'm giving advice to empty eyes. i guess i'm just barely old enough to know better, cracking ribs over who got the bigger piece. just too young to truly see the innocence in my eyes.