Two-hundred and Seventy-eight: dying to feel alive

astronaut thoughts, one inch between me
and everything else. bubble-wrapped touch.
goldfish words popping. gum-sticky doubts,
upside-down frowning. drowning in flat beer.
i’m not here. life is muffled as i shuffle feelings
like scrabble pieces. jesus sips a slurpee as he waits
patiently while i shoot up gas stations, thirsty for blood,
and then my own thigh, dying just to feel alive.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

4 thoughts on “Two-hundred and Seventy-eight: dying to feel alive”

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