i.

sometimes i white-out my fingers just to give me something to forget,
and i change my pen name often; like a feeling as if i can start over again
and (maybe) these regrets aren't staining my hands red as the pen inks me wrong.

words build up like bile and i can almost taste the hate erupting in my throat.
i change the way i kill myself every week just because it never seems to work—
bullets and knives and razorblade (kisses) and noose and painkillers and heights
—i'm just starving for the attention most of the time, i admit.

ii.

these smiles, they cut me fake— as deep as your words ever could. my lies sink through
myteeth like rot and i'm use to the taste of acid running across my togue like
everything i ever tasted, the grime swirls in my hand like smoke and i'm breathing out
cancer, shotgun girl killed the whole fucking world, what was left of it.

iii.

i don't like it, the way you start your sentences with "i" "i" "i" like you're the only one that
matters plus the way you swing me around, boy—girl. i wear summer across my sleeves like
freedom and dewdrops but you're never the same when it's over, no. my heart cracks
like broken glass,nightmares bleeding down my eyes and lips caked blue, west hollywood
and meth addicts when i'm trying not to scream "i love you."

iii and me.

the collision of your kiss, it wounds.