Flailing and broken
and floating
in the depths 
of my despair

And here: the anxiety,
the mind-numbing, life shaking
doubt that encompasses
every fucking ounce of you.

Lost in the midst of what
might or may happen;
placing too many bets
on what feels like it should.

I can’t wait to read
my obituary in the Sunday Times,
"Oh, he was a great man,"
I’m sure they’ll lie about that.

And when they find my body
among empty bottles and
cigarette butts, I’d like to know
what conclusion they’d draw.

But fuck it, I’ll go in the night
not quietly but certainly vainly,
like some sick animal that
knows it is ultimately doomed.

I’ll get drunk on the fading vestiges
of your love and lost expectations,
I’d rather die than get swayed
by my convictions.

Isn’t it funny
how tightly we cling
to 
the ones
we think we love?

And here I am again,
drowning once more,
submersed in the depths
of my self-abusiveness.

I’ll overthink every little
thing, day in and out,
until I’ve wrung every drop
of doubt out of my system.

But no, I’ve always been
content to drink myself
to sleep, lying next to
a half bottle of whiskey.

Alcohol must be the sum
of my inability and
unwillingness to deal
with my own problems.

But that’s okay; I can
manufacture love in cigarette
smoke, I can find truth
at the bottom of a bottle.

Somehow it feels okay
that you’re not here,
saving yourself from the
weight of this heavy heart

I’d never ask you to shoulder
the burden of my hopelessness.
Even if you could, in fact, you
might be the only one who can.

Isn’t it funny how we cling to
each other like sailors to driftwood?
But I know that the heft of my
despair will drag me down to sea.

My first rule for living life:

Never believe everything anyone tells you about anything. Especially pastors, politicians and parents. They’re merely warning you about the bullshit propaganda they’ve been led to believe. Nothing more.

Every single time,
a girl has had
an “epiphany,”
it’s turned badly for me.

But that’s okay,
it’s fine, really.
I don’t mind,
I don’t really care.

I’m a bad influence
on everyone
in my general
circle of friends.

Fuck love, it’s a pit
of misery and painful
memories, one that
I find myself in too often.

I’m tired and broken
in ways that cannot be
explained merely
with simple words.

But that’s okay,
Let God take your wheel,
I’ll drink myself
into oblivion, again.

Whiskey and scotch
are the only constants
that aren’t swayed
by your convictions.

Let your holy book
and your perceptions
of divine entities lead you,
it’s all the same bullshit.

The only heaven I’ll ever see
is a bottle of bottom-shelf
bourbon and the lack of
your warm body besides mine.

Do you remember when
you broke my trust?
No? I suppose you wouldn’t
It has been a while

And I have been limping
through shallow days of
intoxicated misery
ever since.

Shorter moments of sincerity
and sober epiphanies
in the harshest light of
summer’s mornings.

Just when I think I’ve found
all the scattered pieces
of myself, dear, the memories
of your scarred arms return.

I’d swim the ocean to understand
it’s depth, I’d swim until I was
out of breath. But never will I
I lay my trembling hand on yours.

The little devil
on my shoulder
is the part of me that’s
still in love with you.

I am,
fundamentally,
no stranger 
to hopelessness

and I find it
hard to breathe
without you
here.

But here’s my
conscience,
always unclear,
always questioning

and the fear: the
constant,
ever-present
all-consuming fear.

Whether of winter gusts
or bitter ends or 
simply the lack
of you by my side.

My voice shakes
in stuttered phrases
and I’ve breathed far
more lies than truth.

Whiskey-poisoned
and sick with nostalgia,
smoking cigarettes
into the endless night.

Perhaps
it’s my penance, 
whether self-imposed
or divinely wrought.

I
don’t
know
anymore.

Living is
surprisingly
bad for
your health.

Was it love,
or just the 
summer heat

that caused
our skin to blush?

The salt on
our wet skin
and the ocean spray

caught in the
lengths of our hair?

Was it love,
or some
cheap mimicry

like everything
else in Los Angeles?

Southern California
is weird,
and so is love

but I’m content
to smell the sea
on your breath.

Happiness is the smell of good coffee when you walk into a room.

I’ve never
thought of
myself
as a drifter.

Yeah, so
I’ve
read
Kerouac

and
wanderlust
runs through
these veins.

Yeah, I feel like
a wayward,
wandering,
rambling soul.

and my feet
ache to tread
unfamiliar
ground.

But I’ve never
thought of
myself
as a drifter

because your
kiss has
always felt
like home.