I live,
I love in this little bubble
starting from copying what I need
to rise up to;
my self-destructive tendencies are only
a distraction
from this burning, itching thing in the back
of my mind
(because God, I can't wait anymore.)

My tongue presses heavy on the
roof of my mouth and maybe my lips
would be a little more patient
if I went
a little farther, farther, farther.

(It doesn't stop.)
And oh, hello, I thought doing
e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g I'm not supposed to
would be enough,
at
least
for
now.