I Woke Up Like This
My tongue tastes like blood and ash,
the aftertaste of an annual bender I haven’t started yet,
(though perhaps my hangover would beg to disagree).
I woke up like this,
smudged, sickened, & so damn sad,
though in truth that’s nothing new,
I’ve been sad for most of my life.
The calendar says it’s been 10 years, but that’s not how time works for me,
it’s been 10 years, 10 decades, 10 seconds, and again (still) I’m 17 and I don’t understand why I’m always the one who can’t die.
It’s been a long time since I’ve tried to but the desire never really left me,
it just morphed into reckless lack of self interest that’s at the core of my cycles of self destruction.
Maybe that’s why I fall so easily into isolation, I may not fear my own death but I’ve lived through the funerals of too many loves to not be paralysed by its possibility. Or perhaps I’m afraid I’ll be the reason, that it won’t just be me that suffers the consequences of my existence.
Maybe you can tell I’m poisonous, perhaps I wear my toxicity on my skin… is that the reason everyone around me seems to be encased in invisible hazmat suits?
Right there and yet still so out of reach.