Your face is a window pane

I smash with balled fists. 

I kiss the broken glass

And wash you down with blood,

Scrubbing your skeleton clean. 

You are the biggest 

Asshole I know besides

Myself. 

And this morning,

Four people said

I should break 

You in half

With a baseball bat. 

But I would rather 

Break you into thirds

With a hammer,

And reassemble 

The pieces in all

The wrong places 

Because I love you,

You shithead. 

This is my method of relaxation. 

This is my daily dose. 

This is my support group. 

Fuck you. 

Eaten.

As time passes,

I lose more parts

To strangers, relatives,

The elderly, babies,

Collection agencies,

Friends, therapy,

To my girlfriend, 

And people I care about. 

To myself. 

Walking, running, sitting,

Unconscious, awake,

It doesn't matter. 

Like a poster tacked

To a wall,

I am resigned to my outcome. 

Jaws snap, canines slice,

Molars grind, swallowed whole. 

Pieces missing:

Pinky fingers, a foot, an arm,

Half a sternum, 3/4 of a heart,

And the whole frontal lobe

Replaced by bite marks

And strands of warm saliva. 

Gone. Gone. Gone. 

Veins dangling stuck between teeth,

Like a row of used nooses hanging

From a beam in the rafters. 

My emotions are infected,

And pouring out of the fresh lacerations

Onto the tiled kitchen floor. 

I don't notice, even recognize. 

Can't begin to process

What's happening. 

Alone. 

Laying on a couch. 

Packing open wounds

With pink insulation

To stop the bleeding, thinking,

And to absorb the tears. 

It's so hot. 

Dark. 

Damp. 

Empty. 

I lose track of 

The days, hours, and seconds. 

So hopeless. 

In this process of digestion,

I can only be saved by

A finger down the throat,

Or a knife to the stomach. 

im sorry. i know i need to do better.

i have a lot of ideas, but i'm just a lazy bastard. see fuck up.

too many fast food bathrooms, and backseats of cars in a grocery store parking lots,

observing blood going up a tube, then back down.

keep a look out.

be quick,

so no one sees.

light up a cig.

and we are out.

covered in puke after the ride up.

laughing about it now after the miracle cure: this time remy martin.

but knowing the clock is always ticking with each passing second injecting more anxiety into my mind.

we need money.

the sickness is in the mail.

and there's no return to sender address.

in this game of russian roulette, let's hope for the best.

still dick riding scott mcclanahan

"But it didn't really happen that way. I pulled into a gas station before I'd even got there and passed out in my car. I vomited outside my car somehow, but I don't remember it. When I woke up, there wasn't anything playing. The CD was broke and skipping. I wish I could say I started to laugh and remembered how I'd told Sarah once that "May the Bird of Paradise Fly up Your Nose" was my anthem. It was the only song of absurdity that confronted the absurdity of this life, and I wanted it played at my funeral. But I didn't even do that. I wish I could say that at that moment I was thinking about how we are searching for someone, and someones are searching for us. And sometimes this searching brings about our destruction. But I didn't even do that. I just wished that everyone I knew could listen to "May the Bird of Paradise Fly up Your Nose" and feel changed. I wanted them to sing the chorus and feel how it feels to lose their mind. So go ahead. Look it up and listen.

There are bridges waiting for you."

read: West Virginia’s Weirdest Country Star Almost Ruined Scott McClanahan's Life

Underwear Project: teal silk g-string, black leggings, black mini skirt, white/mint push up bra, and dark gray low v-neck t-shirt.

i bought an at home pregnancy test from the drug store down the street from your parents' house, pissed on the strip, and waited 15 minutes.

two blue lines.

negative.

i still haven't had my period.

but we celebrate.

your cock is hard and warm, my tongue massaging the stress out of your sensitive skin.

relief.

i spit parts of our children: miniature limbs, fingers, bald heads, toothless gums, and crying eyes, into the toilet, rinse with mouthwash, brush their tiny bones, and soft sticky skin off the surface of my teeth, and flush.

i love you, but neither of us are ready for that responsibility, and i don't think we will ever be.

that's okay, because at least we realize that unlike so many other dumb fucks that inhabit this world, we don't believe that kids are the solution to all our problems; we believe that answer lies somewhere inside ourselves, if only we could find it.

neither of us have the ability to raise and control another human being, hell we can't even control ourselves, but trust me we're working on it, even though, right now it's not going so well, except for not being pregnant.

we shoot up our final bags, take a couple of xanax, smoke a joint, and then a cig out of our bedroom window, then eat some twizzlers, and birthday cake oreos for dinner, before you turn the lights off and put on a bbc documentary about creatures that live in the deep ocean, and their mating habits.

both of us crawl into bed, and kill the remaining seconds of the day with the words, "good night" and "i love you," until we slip out of consciousness wrapped in each other's arms.

tomorrow, i'll spread my legs, and it will be your turn to get me off, which shouldn't be a problem because your tongue is fully rested.

for an hour tonight, i thought about losing an arm and dying because i thought i had a blood clot in my left arm

this word is a tyrannosaurus rex composed of crumpled up balls of loose-leaf paper, containing scribbles and sketches of embarrassing artwork, notes from college, and failed to-do lists, the childhood toys covered in dust that we used to play with, cellphone parts, legos, double a batteries, arteries, veins, and blood, attacking corporate skyscrapers of steel, glass, black ink, and ashes, located in the epicenter of the borough of the frontal lobe in a city called, "my mind."

burn.

the definition: chaos returns to order, and order is chaos. out of the destruction: growth.

"it'll get better. i'll all work out.....except it won't."