i wish i was a stronger person, but i'm not.

curled up
on the blue tile,
knees scrunched into my chest,
in front of the vent
blowing hot air
over the landscape of my body
onto the bathroom floor
illuminated by the blue light
from the tv
in the other room,
watching the reflections of
young actors pretending
to be amish kids
kissing each other,
and slamming liquor
in a cornfield
on educational tv.
i am searching for comfort.

eyes watering,
isolated,
ignoring the people
i love the most.
feels like
i am at the bottom of the ocean
watching aspca infomercials
wrapped in a blanket of sand
even though i'm allergic to cats and dogs.
i feel guilt.

day four,
and i'm contorting my body
into a particular position
to disappear.
and failing.

restless legs.

my left hand is
reaching towards the surface,
icicles sloping off
hangnails and cuticles,
growing cold,
begging for a xanax,
and/or a sub,
and/or a bag of heroin.

waiting for a savior.

nothing.

my right hand grips it
hard
causing fissures,
cracks,
and blisters,
pulling my head above the surface
for one last breath of oxygen
mixed with nicotine.

it's uncomfortable,
but there is no way out of this.
i can only save myself.

i drink shots of saltwater for nourishment, 
and hope for a better future.

i feel like squeaky fromme
trying to assassinate
president gerald ford
with an unloaded gun.