panic attack june 2, 2014 4:52am

right now,
in my mind,
you're
dead
with a needle
stuck in your
arm.
skin
pale blue
eyes still
open.

i'm going
to the bathroom
to puke,
and curl up
in a ball
on the
sand colored
square floor tiles,
as i watch my
phone until
i can't keep
my eyes open.

overreacting over radio silence in my bedroom while feeling like i have to throw up because of an impending nervous breakdown; you are on vacation with your friend in atlantic city.

tonight, i can relate to my mother.

i am chain smoking paranoid thoughts, and cope by snorting heroin.
involving you.
involving car accidents, abductions, sexual assault, natural disasters, and shark attacks. 
even though you're probably in the hotel, in a bed, sleeping.

tonight, i am having a spiritual awakening.
in this moment.
for the first time.
i am genuinely concerned about someone after six hours of phone silence.
so i stay up.
watching the phone.
waiting for your name to come across the navy blue screen in white letters.

tonight, i want to talk to you.
because i've ruined my life, hate myself, and want to talk to you about it.
my hiding places are filled beyond max capacity.
in a couple of days, there's no place to go.
like a person dropping through the air without a parachute during the fall.
i know what they are thinking:
panic
anger.
remorse.
his/her loved ones.
hysteria.
past mistakes.
future regrets.
sadness.
"FUCK!"
death.

it's pure fucking horror that no one can understand because there are no survivors.
it's worse than the moment of impact due to the combination of time, loneliness, and watching the ground getting closer, and closer.

tonight, i am falling.
tonight, you are ___ in atlantic city.
tonight i am concerned about the both of us.

the stray cats fight then have crazy make up sex

source.

looney.
infected.
lost.
alone.
scratches
front lobe
of brain
through nasal passage.
fingernail.
pinky finger.
vapid.
friends.
murder.
a culture of bacteria.
conquers.
skin cells.
kill.
fresh breath crystals.
liar.
shit eater's grin.
missing organs.
missing blood.
missing.
mv.
matt.
matthew.
motherfucker.
masturbating with sandpaper.
laughs.
oooowwww.
vaginal ovens.
baking.
battered chicken pieces.
in pussy juice.
sizzling.
sssssssss.
give birth.
miscarriage.
eat.
the fetus.
leftover.
period blood.
vampire bags.
squeeze.
pulp.
drink.
tampon tea.
with
vodka.
aaaahhhhh.
make money.
get rich.
fall in love.
marriage.
fails.
failure.
grim.
smile.
take family photo.
not good enough.
me.
sleepy.
sassy yawns.
white light.
hallucinate.
repent.
dead.
repeat.
life.
wait.
start over again.
i'm confused.

frozen feet

i wear ice for socks.

numbed.

i can't feel the steps.

even wrapped in wool.

even in the summer.

my feet never thaw out.

you haven't had much to live for, which is why you spend most of your time pretending.

you calculate the pros and cons of each action, in the hopes of stumbling across a treasure that will save your life or buy more time; all you find is scraps.

broken pieces of something that was once whole.

the thought of another person finding any treasure, not even this specific one, infects your stomach with butterflies that have serial killer tendencies, and coats your skin with layers of sweat.

you haven't showered in weeks.

you haven't earned a living, which means no two story house, no in-ground pool,  no heated toilet seat, no sports car at 50, no outdoor patio, no backyard barbeques, just yellow teeth, blood in your spit, a runny nose, frostbitten toes, pinned pupils, late nights alone, high, distracting yourself with sad piano music, free games on the internet, chocolate bars, a dull pocket knife, and porn; the text message and phone calls stopped months ago, and never resumed.

your heart is misfiring, and beating irregularly.

you haven't fucked a pussy or sucked a dick in years.

you have been in love, but in love with imaginary friends who are based off of real people that don't talk to you anymore.

real people scare you.

you're talking to yourself in an elevator, and the people around you suspect that your brain was lost in a storm drain a long time ago.

spitting up yellowish green shit out of your lungs and onto the floor.

trying to show off to everyone around you, while you think about tying an ethernet cord into a noose, and drowning in a dirty bathtub.

try to predict what will happen after you close your eyes tonight.

just hanging around without any inner drive or ambition.

replacing hellos with goodbyes.

unhappy.

down.

no fun.

you're not brought up at family functions anymore, your parents' explain how your older sister is to interested relatives/family friends.

you haven't done anything important ever, so why should you start now?

sorry mom.

sorry dad.

 

imagining yourself dissolving like sugar in a bath tub

alone, and isolated
in your bedroom.
on your knees
with your forehead
pressed against
the white drywall
listening for sounds
and noises coming
from something
or someone
that's alive.
staining that spot
yellow
with your sweat,
tears, apathy, and patience.
this is as close as you come
to prayer.
you want someone
to save you from
yourself.
you want to save
yourself from yourself,
but can't.
you listen,
and only hear
unspoken words mixed
with silence.
your computer and cellphone
died
a long time ago.

when i wake up

two miniature women
scale my face,
and sit next to the corners of my eyes
resting their backs on the bridge
of my nose.
each one takes out a crowbar.
they pry
each eye out
to donate to
a blind five year old boy
who wants to be able
to see his mom, his dad,
his friends, the color green,
the world around him.
they want him to be happy.
the miniature women 
replace my eyes
with glass ones.
like changing
an burnt out 
light bulbs.
when they finish,
they pull out sledgehammers
and smack them against
the glass pupils until
they shatter.
i blink.
embedded glass shard teeth
forming two small mouths
ready to consume anything
that's in front of me.
there is nothing in front of me.
the two miniature women
hop off my face.
they don't leave yet.
they want to observe.
i'm crying blood.
two warm salty 
red streams.
my hands lead me to the tub,
i fill it up,
slip into the hot water,
and do nothing.
nothing to do.
nothing to say.
nothing to consume.
nothing in front of me.
no where to go.
nothing to look forward to,
which was the case before 
i lost my eyes—
tomorrow never has had anything to offer.
hopeless.
miserable.
frustrating.
a waste of time.
and boring.
the two miniature women leave,
on their way to 
the blind five year old boy's house,
wiping tears out of the corners of their eyes
with the back of their hands,
not regretting their decision.
i wish i could tell them,
"i'm sorry for being a disappointment
i'm sorry for being a bad person."
in the end,
i want that little boy to be
happy.

91513

You don’t want to go to work at your part-time job.

You want to lie on the couch all day covered in blankets, watching mind numbing daytime game shows, and popping k-pins in the fetal position hoping a giant boot crashes through the ceiling flattening your body.

Hoping it twists, grinding your bones into the broken couch parts, for good measure.

Skin and bodily fluids oozing under rubber.

Five minutes pass.

And nothing happens.

You decide against taking a shower and brushing your teeth.

You decide that smelling like shit and having bad breath will help you avoid social interactions.

You decide that having social interactions when you smell like shit and have bad breath proves to strangers that you have no inner-drive or initiative to do anything important ever.

It’s important for other’s to understand this because it feels good to be honest.

You want to be alone, but you don’t want to be by yourself.

You want to be able to do something amazing, but “something” and “amazing” are such broad, general terms that are too complicated for you to understand.

So you put your blue polo shirt on with the company logo on the sleeve, and arrive at work ten minutes late instead.

Upon your arrival, you become a different person who is constantly smiling, laughing, and taking an interest in other people’s lives by asking questions about their jobs, sons, daughters, grandkids, pets, sports teams, vacations, and church functions while slicing ham, cheese, and/or salami.

Just another version of yourself to hate.

They talk and talk and talk and complain and complain and complain as you nod your head.

Always ending the conversation with, “Have a great night!”

Not really giving a shit.

More concerned with the tools you have at your disposal to kill yourself (slicers, ovens, knives, deep fryer, saran wrap + a full bowl of potato salad.)

Only to shut the lights off to go home and do it all over again tomorrow.

The daily $8.05 grind.

Teaching you to talk to yourself, because on your shift you receive no new messages.

She told you to wait because she needs time to think.

And the books you took out and studied to interpret those words have left you with a bad feeling that can be compared to a stomach ache that expands to encompass an entire body.

So you’ve started destroying yourself, instead of being patient because you are a fucking idiot proving everyone who has called you smart and talented wrong on a minute to minute basis.

Which is making you forget about how fucked your life really is until tomorrow.

Then you watch a documentary on people living in the sewers of Bogota, Columbia and realize the whiny pussy you actually are.

And how little you actually matter.

Always second guessing the words coming out of your mouth in comparison to the emotions you’re feeling.

 

 

 

This Isn't About You

"i am sad."

Walking around with you.
Finding myself sitting on staircases
Smoking cigarettes,
One after another,
Not knowing anyone,
Apologizing for vacant
Disinterested expressions.
Assimilating with shadows,
As you perform for strangers.
I'll play with a hot pair of pliers.
Gripping each fingernail tightly
Before peeling it off with a firm tug.
Before you puke in an alley
and tell us,
"Yo take me home. I'm sick."
I never wanted to be here.

"u r breaking my heart."

I think if you went to the cardiac care center at the hospital,
They would tell you it's your diet.
Plus, we're not really in love.
Because we're not really married.
Your face is a guilt trip 
Exploiting my generosity.
And I just want some time to myself
Without the self-loathing.
I'm sorry for never being able to say the right words
to make you happy.
My tongue is retarded.

"i am turning my phone off and not talking to you or anyone today."

Thank you for being mature about this.
Thank you for not overreacting.
Thank you for not acting melodramatic.
Thank you for not posting this on facebook.
Thank you for holding me after I got kicked out of my parents' house.
Thank you for being yourself and not acting differently in front of other people.
Thank you for making me feel like a cat, slack-jawed with matted fur, a half-eaten eye, and a broken spine decomposing in a stagnant puddle between the white lines of the highway and the rumble strips.
Thank you for listening to me, instead of talking about yourself.
Thank you for never saying thank you.
Thank you for never trying to make sense of it.
And thank you for the sincerity in your apologies.

Don't get too excited or upset
Because this isn't about you.
.

you know i’m stalking you, right?

I am looking through fingerprinted windows at the flickering light blue glow of the tv reflecting through the curtains hanging in your bedroom window. Lately, I find myself here, on this street, parked across from your house singing along to the sappiest songs on my ipod.

I am imaging you here, using this performance to show you that I am sensitive and caring.

I am imaging never-ending status updates proclaiming our love and affection:

“it doesn’t matter if the sun is shining or if it’s raining all day, our love grows in any weather. <3 _______”

“AWWW, I Love you too sugarbear! _________”

7 billion likes 143 million comments

And we’ll become the best boyfriend and girlfriend.

Which are compound words.

Which are two words combined into a singular word that has a new meaning.

Boy/girlfriend.

Boy/girl friend.

Get it?

You are nodding your head, up and down.

Bored.

Because what I’m saying doesn’t make sense and is fucking stupid.

Now, I’m imaging myself remembering all the pimples discovered in the mirror earlier that morning and not being able to relate to people.

Back to reality.

Maybe there is a hidden symbolism contained in the hyphen between the words, self and conscious.

I can’t make it through one sappy song without fucking up the majority of the lyrics and/or straying off key.

Maybe it’s better you’re not here.

Maybe I need more practice, but I think I figured out the tv show you’re watching.

Newly Weds. Right?

I am imaging myself wrapped in a cocoon made out your blankets inhaling the scent of your shampoo, which smells fruity and tropical at the same time.

Immobile.

Staring at your stucco ceiling.

The breeze of the window fan skimming across my face.

Forever.

In Love.

I will never turn into something beautiful.

You know I’m stalking you, right?

Which means, you should probably make that phone call to the police within the next couple of minutes.

Scabs

And my back is scarred.

Picking scabs with long fingernails.

Picking scabs and finger-painting what loneliness would look like on the surface of Mars on a piece of looseleaf.

Picking scabs and sleeping in a haunted house that isn’t really haunted.

Picking scabs and stapling rejection letters to my face so people don’t assume I’m a failure.

Picking scabs and branding my forearm with a hot iron rod at work, thinking: This will last forever.

Picking scabs because I watched my father do it when I was a kid.

Picking scabs.

And my back is scarred.

Forming new scars like islands emerging from the depths of the Pacific.

I take my shirt off and twist my upper half so I can see red and white spots.

I imagine them all fusing together into one wound.

And my back is scarred.

Self-conscious.

I write, HELP ME with a black sharpie across my stomach and never take my shirt off for anyone ever again.

“So What Have You Been Doing with Your Life?”

I am a motel on the side of a highway with a sign that advertises “ACANCY” in pink neon glow. The owners/employees are too lazy/apathetic to replace the burnt out fluorescent tubes of the “V” which is caked in dust and numerous dead insects. There has been a sharp decline in profits because of a mass suicide involving an entire family—husband, wife, kids (1 girl and 2 boys, ages 5-17), aunts, uncles, cousins, a poodle, a goldfish, and both sets of grandparents— in room 8. Their bodies were discovered in individual blow-up kiddie pools—each pool occupied by a decomposing corpse and a yellow-bellied sea snake—by one of owners’ wives. She subsequently went into shock, got dizzy, lost her balance, fell into one of the kiddie pools, and was injected in her right arm with 2.3 CCs of venom. Water spilled on the carpet and a colony of mildew started to form.  It was a real fucking massacre, which had a run on the national news circuit until it was dropped because of low ratings. People didn’t give a shit anymore; they were more interested in seeing images of crushed brown bodies unearthed by orange clad safety workers from piles of broken concrete—two weeks after the mass suicide and accidental death there was an earthquake in Chile. Now, it’s two years later. No one gives a shit about replacing the “V”. The owner, whose wife had died, committed suicide by repeatedly bashing his head off the coffee table in room 3 a couple of months ago.  Families in minivans drive by because even though they stopped giving a shit, they still are uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping in the beds of this establishment. An establishment where people have killed themselves in the past. Free HBO and the lowest rates around aren’t persuasive enough to stop them from being scared. Instead, they’ll drive ten miles to a chain hotel with continental breakfast, stiff beds, an inground swimming pool, and safety. The remaining owners are thinking about turning the motel into a paranormal tourist trap, and are in touch with the paranormal investigators of that one reality tv show, negotiating an agreement for a one hour episode, which could air sometime next fall.

What have you been up to?

I’m sorry, that was a rude fucking question.     

Thanks for Writing In.

Thanks for writing in.  Thanks for poking holes my torso with a knife made of ivory and doing it in public.

I want you to light the fuse coming out of my spine with a BBQ lighter because it’s impossible for me to reach. I want you to taste the explosion like a master chef sampling his new creation, which will ultimately be a failure. The tip of my rib cage embedded DEEP in your right cheek.

Have a GREAT day! (Fuck Yourself.)