“Here, Read This Paper. I’m Not Good With Face to Face Encounters Because I’m a Compulsive Liar.”

My heart is a ghetto advertising nice, affordable housing on a billboard sticking out of my chest, but it is barely visible.

I only filled my ears with a couple of drops of bleach because they’re not paying attention most of the time anyway .

I’m sorry when I blurt out one word answers and/or rhetorical questions —I know it means, “I really don’t care, but I want to seem interested so I don’t hurt your feelings.”

I’m a terrible person. I hope the good me visits from an alternate universe and chops off my head with a sword made out of forgotten words that were never put together.

Let me lick your skin to see if it tastes like the cherry lollipops at doctor’s office—the flavor always took my mind off the needle penetrating the wall of a vein.  

Let me throw up in the silence that permeates in the seconds that pass by before you answer.

I should work at a job with little to no interaction because my college diploma has no aspirations except attracting dust particles. I want to routinely experience the solitary fog of tv, white noise, and reheated leftovers most nights of the week.

You should squeeze me hard enough until my skeleton oozes out the top of my body like toothpaste because dying like that wouldn’t be so bad.

Just to let you know, I’m nowhere close to buying a house. I also work as a high school janitor. Plus smoke. And spend a lot of time in my room pretending I’m wafting in the ether of outer space with the lights off under my spaceman sheets staring up at the glow in the dark stars and planets on ceiling.