bingeing doesn’t help; Teenage Poetry
bingeing doesn’t help
I sit and am good at it until
I get up, an act not of decision
but impulse, a reaction to
the discomforting dark paths
that dazzle me into the kitchen,
boxes I reach into and pull out
contents that had names.
I hate everything. I want to roll everything into a ball and shit on it. I want to give it to someone I don’t believe in, so that they can shit on it too. Think about guns the way I’ve been lately.
My dreams contain dead people who talk to me while I’m washing dishes. They tell me that there’s no soap, or that I didn’t rinse well enough. I am wasteful, they say. But I rouse from dreams inspired to improve, buy a dishwasher.
Unicorns will be at my deathbed. They will have thick, sharp horns, and nuzzle my thighs as I vomit a rainbow for them to ride once I die. Their shiny manes will reflect its hues, like petrol puddles on a bright sunny day.