Posted: April 19, 2012 in otiose

I still break down for hours at a time and rub the skin on my eyelids raw when I’m sleepless and sober.
I stop eating, because the thought of feeling sick makes me sick before I’m sick and then I’m sick
and I want to be sick, so that I can focus on physically feeling like shit.

I pretend that my new Land of Make-Believe friends can distract me from the ravages of sharp thinking
pounding against a dull, dim fog spreading from behind my left eye to crack my jaw and roll down my spine.

Crank the wheel up, up and away, and slam into the curb, but I’d rather backslide
slip down
pass out in the cold dew covered grass of a soft, well manicured lawn where I’m unwelcome come sun up
but you’ll hold me till dawn.

Shut up. I caught myself telling you to shut up.
“I don’t care. Shut up,” and I turned the power on and the static off before someone notices
I’m fucking arguing with myself aloud in the back room where we keep the broken merchandise out of view.

Damn right, I’m still broken, but you’d be so fucking proud of me, because right now, I’m sober.

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