babyspooks:

I have killed myself
many times;
a pistol loaded with glitter
cyanide-spiked lavender iced tea
jumping off a bridge into a
river of your tears
that you had the heart to
name after me

when you speak
black mud spills out of
your mouth
onto the floor
submerging the rococco furniture
in your bullshit
and drowning me
infiltrating my respiratory system
but you can’t tell because my
lungs were already black
to begin with.

the snow is melting
along with my better judgment 
smoke ceases to emerge from chimneys
but still streams out my mouth
like it has for the past 3 years

spring is an in-between season
and i am an in-between human
ice melts off my exterior
as rain pelts my brain
only to freeze again
in the chill of night air.

my thighs take up too much space
i hate them

i have a severe lack of impulse control
i hate it

my “friend” told me i don’t have the guts to kill myself nor attempt to get better
i hate him

maybe he’s right
i hate myself

babyspooks:

my psychologist referred me 
to a support group for 
codependency

the first time i went
there were 4 people
sat around a table
too big for the room

we stared blankly as the
group leader spread misinformation
about the All-Encompassing Evil of Drugs

and all i could think about
was the time my friends and i
bought weed behind the church
where her Narcotics Anonymous meeting
was in progress

making eyes at the drug-dealing boys in the car
4 naive girls stumbling across an icy parking lot
beginning to feel the effects

in the meeting we avoided
bloodshot eye contact
and i couldn’t stop staring at a girl
who looked like Kristen Stewart.

when inspiration strikes electrified,
my brain in bathwater with a toaster,
I dig through my bag like
a prisoner desperate to escape;
find a pen before my
ideas take flight
words growing wings
heading south for the winter
with no promise of return
upon spring.

You see them, those
flawless creatures.
Not just in magazines,
not just on TV screens;
at school,
at work,
on the street.

Those people who
don’t have pores.
People with silky hair,
and peppermint smiles.
Their body fat
percentage is
15% or less.

They’re so beautiful,
it hurts.
They’re so gorgeous,
it stings.
They are a breathing
perfume ad.
And the worst part
is it’s effortless.

But I look at them
and their beauty bores me.
Their facial symmetry
is kind of creepy.
Perfection doesn’t
have a story.
Where are your scars?

I like broken noses
and crooked smiles.
Show me stretch marks
and imperfect skin.
I like people who
walk with a limp,
and stutter when
they speak.

Show me your physical mistakes.

it’s past my bedtime and my insides hurt.
i’ve lived in a constant state of anxiety
for as long as i can remember;
asking stupid questions
receiving stupid answers.

overwhelmed by everything, from
what it means to exist purposefully
to what— or if— i should eat
to riding on the bus
to the google chrome app store.

great things are happening
to great people, and i wonder
if i will ever be one of them. 
i get scared, because 
no one has the answer.

i can’t shake this sense of background panic, of waiting for vague imminent doom 

it hangs in the atmosphere as if i’ve smoked 40 cigarettes in an air-tight cell

i can mask the smell with perfume, i can wave it away with my hand

for momentary palliation. 

but still, it saturates the air and i have no choice but to breathe in

i can feel it in my lungs; it builds up and again— panic

so i light another cigarette 

for stress-relief.