kiddepool

now it’s chicago. you screwed me, i’m without a home, without a life, without everything i’m supposed to have. the prey fights every day to stay alive, they’re always so tired.

everything has been said. there is nothing else.

to sharpen the knife on the cheap sink edge, to beat back the ghosts i clawed at the shower drain until my nails bled. scour at the stain only to put it right back. two shirts on my back, receipt after receipt tossed on the floor, nothing is ever clean. is she listening? can she hear us? 

biting my clothes to keep from screaming taking pills to keep from dreaming i want to break something important i want to kick my dad in the shins i was referring to the present in past tense it was the only way that I could survive it i want to close my head in the car door i want to sing this song like I'm dying heavy boots on my throat, I need i need something soon i need something soon I can't talk to my folks, I need i need something soon i need something soon all of my fingers are froze, I need i need something soon I need something soon only one change of clothes, I need i need something soon i need something soon my head is, my head is, my head is stay inside all this winter filling out forms from a working printer i want to talk like Raymond Carver (An advertisement cries out) i want to turn down the goddamn tv ("He should have gone to Jared's") binging on the latest sitcom feeling guilty every second it's on i want to put my foot through a window (I document my mind loss) I want to romanticize my headfuck (Through instruments of wordplay) heavy boots on my throat, I need i need something soon i need something soon i can't talk to my folks, I need i need something soon i need something soon all of my fingers are froze, I need I need something soon I need something soon only one change of clothes, I need I need something soon i need something soon. my head is, my head is, my head is my head is, my head is, my head is

it was a fake good day, a limbo day

cutting through red tape. my scissors are dull my arms are weak. all these obstacles prevent my objective, but there’s no story.

my life is cake. sliced into the layers of fondant, the blue edible paint slathered on thick. sticks holding it up.

the threw all my eggs into my basket. the yolk dripped through the wicker, the runny membrane collected dust and dirt from the crevices and corners. what a rotten basket, what a forceful throw, what a huge mistake.

the smell fills my nose without warning, without permission. nothing outweighs it, nothing outsmarts it, nothing beats it. i turn my head and escape it slightly- it always creeps back. up my nose, right through to my brain. is it just the scent of the city? shall i move again? is it something in my room i’ve glossed over? is there no escape? can i run away?