if romance is dead i guess i'm a necrophiliac

shall i play video games, jack off or die

Whenever I smoke, my tongue finds the hole in my tooth, the one that I left for too long. My tongue finds that spot and rests there, digging into it. My whole body feels light but the tooth feels liquid, and as I eat, I can feel myself decaying further. It is filled in now, and I feel no palpable relief. See, they overfilled it, ever so slightly, and I didn't notice until I was halfway out the door. I know I'll get used to it, learn to find comfort in being full, just as my tongue found comfort in the emptiness. But sometimes it is too much, just as the cavity got to be too much eventually. This time, I don't need to smoke for my muscle memory to kick in, searching for the hole in my teeth. But instead of emptiness, another tongue meets mine. It does not fill the gap. Nor does it get rid of it. But it stops me from searching for it for a while.

it only stung for a moment when i let you see me naked just as i had the night before i would've liked to see you again but i didn't know this was the way it worked you were beautiful you had a melodrama poster you liked instagram posts about being in love so you're capable of loving just not for me i am pretty only when you're drunk and i'm between your legs and you don't have to see my eyes i am pretty when i kiss you goodbye and you watch me leave i am pretty when i woke up in the morning and you held me closer in your sleep i hate you for what you did and i miss you like a little kid

i feel misshapen the ugly version of my face is back and it is too square and my hair isn't quite long enough to cover that up/ i sit here in my room and it is slightly too cold and there are clothes on my floor and i know i have to keep going and i don't just mean with this essay/ i want to write i want to draw i want to dance but i also want to kneel in front of an altar and to be pure again and i know that's not how it works but i don't care i just want to be clean/ i imagine there are burn marks there and that if i start itching i will burn away entirely/ i am a girl i am my easter dress i am pigtails i am telling that girl i met that day on the playground that i am seven years old and she gasps and doesn't believe me/ i am telling that boy with curly hair that i like him instead of writing about him in my diary/ i am saying no to walking back to cowley road and i go home and sleep in my bed and i continue my days the way i used to/ i don't send that message i don't say that thing in october because i am not yet whole and i am still growing and i don't know what the hell i'm doing/ but someone has bitten a chunk out of me and it won't grow back/ i lie in my bed and i sleep and i don't tell my mum anything because i don't need to