Messy minds and hands that don’t feel like mine

I sit in a dim lit room,
trying to put my thoughts
into sweet poetry.

I write with hands that no longer feel like my own.

And my minds a fucking mess,
but no one wants to hear that.
They want unrequited love,
they want emotional spoken messages.

It’s hard to write that when your thoughts make you want to blow your brains out.

I’ve thought about dying
everyday this week.
I can feel myself slowly slipping.

The numbness sweeping through my veins

like a warm embrace
as I take those pills
and down this drink.

Close my eyes and await the morning,
if it comes this time.


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