Counting X’s

always looking down
down into the gutter
where darkness is born.
talking’ through my lashes
instead of those orbs that
make the world seem real.
too afraid of what they
might see when they
undress me with their eyes.

“oi, do you want to blow me?”

I have so much to say, but I
can’t pull away from the dam
that is fit to burst / fit to flow
through the streets and sweep
everyone away like excess chalk
from a screever’s drawing.

“why can’t you see me?!”

drowning in silky days,
sharpening my nails with
the frosted glass on the porch.
eroding my teeth on white
chocolate, trying to maim
myself in any way I can,
before they influence my

“don’t spiral, baby, please don’t.”

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