i don’t know how to make myself useful

crawling crying clever huh

my veins are filled with saltwater

clench love stop heart

beat i must beat i must beat i must

wash my hair and get out of bed and wake up

necessarily in that order

if i want to love myself, but i can’t

god i don’t believe in you anymore but

god help me

god damn it

please pleas people pleased

pleasure’s all yours

please don’t come again

i am rotting inside out

i am going to put a knife under my abdomen

and write a going-out poem

for the pretty mortuary doctors to gobble up

if no one else

and nothing more, burn my high school yearbook

into lungfuls of cigarette smoke

and first last kisses

and coversations in unflavoured seltzer

bottoms up and choke

after all

i am only another failed experiment

in the class of 2024

neon glitter pen signatures rap tap tapping to

the hypnotising rhythm of

a crisis hotline

oops. i’m sorry. i swear i meant to live

i swear i don’t know how i got all the way down here

and yet cannot get out

i swear it’s my slaughtered knees

being bad butchers

making squealing pigs out of my soul


i swear it’s not me but it’s always

always me me me


i can’t count how many times i’ve uttered tired

but burden hasn’t been dulled down

and i am all play and dullness

dig me out back with the jack and build

a house out of my bird bones

and cheap twine

when my head’s heavy with birdseed instead of

oozing medicine

i swear i’ll be someone else not me

i know you didn’t want this

didn’t want me

i’m so sorry, oh god

i just wanted to be okay

let me be.

but i can’t i shan’t i see

mama, i swear i didn’t mean to make you sad again

i didn’t mean to. i didn’t. i didn’t try to

spin your vertigo with unravelling spools

of unconditional devotion

untangle my anchor

from your sturdiest continent

and let me be, sinking sobbing stupid

i’m sorry i’m so


huh. i never tried but

mama, give me the strength to love you back

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fresh brews

kitchen halls tap dancing

with the sound of broken ants

spinning in tight circles

pheromones and empty hands


without a trace of honesty

poisoned lure to take the shot

only left to wake up modesty

at the bottom of the coffee pot


faucet drip drip dripping

ice skating past greasy plates

sugar crystals missing

press the blatting alarm hours late


and when the eggs are freshly burned

and breakfast is ready to be thrown up

wait for the ants to find their way home

in your head for a dose of morning brain rot.

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Shotgun Seat

Fear our mild discretion

We’re here for total sensation

Disciples without morals

Finding love under car crashes


And I’ll be your pure creation

Your god and sin lacking aspiration

Babylon hinged on a pedestal

Forsake loathing for crumpled metal.

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fingers around the wrist

why? because you wanted to, didn’t you?

you hate your sister for distorting the mirror

because you can’t gawk and gander when she’s around

she’s a pretty reminder of the ugly truth

and you want to lose more numbers—yes!

go play the numbers game, count count count

count on it making you somebody

count on it giving you a fucking personality

because you’re boring and bland like the

sugar-free biscuits you shoved in your mouth, chew

chew chew a million times to make it last but spit it out

at the very last second, the aftertaste is bitter

and the bile is too sour, satisfactory, so powerful

so ethereal that it makes you feel dizzy as it corrodes

the crowns in your grin and plucks hairs off off

off at the fringe, stay simple, so brittle—snapping back

into the fantasy timeline where soft silk drips off your bones

like sophisticated ooze and the one that you

love is your most perfect excuse and your lovely

younger sister isn’t also starting to cut into her flawless skin

and you can’t stop stop stop yourself or them or her

because who the hell are you, really?

just another skeleton with a bloated reflection

always losing the numbers game, but never losing numbers—

why? why not? because you fucking wanted to, didn’t you? didn’t you?

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They Say “Don’t Open Old Wounds…”

I don’t want to reopen my old wounds

But it’s simply the only thing I have left to do

There’s nothing more to be said about me

Except for a condolence or a passing apology


Picking at the scars, hoping for an infection

Hoping the festering bacteria would spread through

Hoping for sensation, or something maybe close

Hoping that these old wounds would feel brand new


I’m already too numb to ask for more medication

Already too debilitated to beg for a final miracle cure

I’m already too sick, far too late to try on and on

Already at the brink of extinction to still feel unsure


I’m opening old wounds, bleeding them out to dry

Doing everything they all told me not to do, only left out to die

There’s nothing more to be done, no band-aid left to rip

These old wounds seem useless when there’s nothing left in me to fix.

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a toast to apeirophobia

you are love at the end of the world, something spelled without a glottal plea

the stars on my crown hang heavy tonight and i’ve barely slept for an hour but my mind drifts off to weary constellations and i sometimes wonder if we were aligned at all

you, vague hurt, you, toothache in the middle of a birthday party

you, a love like no other

and running without wolves to guide our journey, the forest scratches every inch of bare skin and i would cry out if you hadn’t done the same to me in your restless tossing and turning, there is love in your eyes but no love in the blood you make me bleed

there is still something left to be said. but my mouth is dry and full of sand, kiss it and catch a fly on the wall, smear ointment on its wings and maybe i’ll tell you about how i feel

and it isn’t a good one, it isn’t a love i towed beyond fathoms of seawater and across miles of irradiated coastlines, it isn’t me, count the distance and end up with infinity in one sitting, infinity with end, infinity to beg you of love

beg me of a message unclear, home sweet home

it’s better than nothing. the woozy way i walk into the ocean with a pocket full of rocks and a mind full of bitter sloshing around, is better than nothing, love

it’s better than everything love

because it’s something i still wish to keep, wish on a nebulae cluster that doesn’t exist the second you force yourself to breathe out, screams

no comforting the choir, i’ll drape mine around your bruised shoulders and shake both of them softly until i’ve killed half the universe with my hubris, until we’ve killed off every erstwhile incandescence just to look a little off-kilter, early morning, i’ve never felt better despite never finding out what repose meant

the sky is red at sunrise and then what

and then we, and then we

feel fine

you are love at the end of the world, and i am ready to struggle for survival. invite me into your rose-tinted apocalypse and allow me to decide a fate which was never mine to rewrite

it’s nothing

it’s better than nothing love

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breeding ground

set the pace

and fuck like animals

sweet sensations

bloody glimpse of dorsal

sinking teeth

right down to the spine

shrieks of pain

was it yours, or mine?


screw disgrace

and fool monsters bare

salty cessations

marrow in white underwear

slipping fingers

right under skewed torsos

submerged remains

will it be mine, or yours?

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On My Birthday

I’m gonna kill myself on my birthday
I’m gonna stuff my face with cake
I’m gonna eat as much as I want
And then throw it up
‘Cause I’ve made a huge mistake

I’m gonna kill myself on my birthday
Let them bite into my happy lie
I’ll blow the candle and make a wish
Oh, I hope I’ll actually die

I’m gonna kill myself on my birthday
The celebration continues soon
And when I’m gone, you can have some fun
And also my messy room

I’m gonna kill myself on my birthday
Yeah, what more can be done?
For a failure only two decades in
With their slow round around the sun

I’m gonna kill myself on my birthday
And I wish you all the best
For a present no one would ever forget
This will be the best birthday yet

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took me a while

to figure out

that the feathers

on your back

weren’t from wings

of your own;

but rather, from all

the doves you

strangled in your sleep.

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“wanna go out for coffee?”

The cave of your cranium
It echoes, echoes, echoes like an asylum
You behave like you’re not one of them
But it only goes to show how hard it is to pretend
I’ll only stop to chat if no one’s listening
You don’t always have to fill the cup you’re pissing in
Wide-eyed closet lunatic…


it’s always just the little things

the little things i don’t want to miss

when feeling something wasn’t something new

when there was still something—anything at all—to do


blowing cooling froth over cheeky conversations

board games and crumpled napkins, losing caution

sleepy sodium lights kissing sappy journal entries

bitching about school days ’cause that’s all there is


when holographic eyes hit the light just right and flash every colour

at wild ideas that last all afternoon, a silent wish to let it last forever

laughing at the moon like loony-eyed losers waiting for the next hit

if the stars fall on our head, we’d wake up with a story, talk some shit


but life, i find, isn’t always chronically romantic

always sliding back away into dead automatic

so i’ve since learned to keep my heavy head down

be the only letdown and not be their friend now


and i’ll cram myself away in niggling crevices

tucked in corners sweet sunlight never dares to hit

i’ll dance to arid music no one else could hear

submerged under rotting prose and unpainted bliss


masquerade as a tortured artist—just without the art

it’s so easy, it’s just too easy to fuck yourself up

air all these mindless thoughts with nothing to show

after all(?), it’s fine it’s fine it’s fine to be alone


convincing my dissociation of every bled-out decision

others will falter but still fly past, so why can’t i move on?

when i know everyone—and no one—will be out to get me

last time was the last time, a panic-attack-wrapped memory


so i’ll sew my orifices tightly shut and swallow the thimble

as i watch from afar, wondering how the living must feel

burn the pages of every ode and ire, and let survivors survive

as i sit here and pray to hell i don’t last until twenty-five


because it’s always just the little things

the little things i’ll pretend to never have missed

despite wanting to be someone, some other, or something not this

it’s just much easier to convince the world that i don’t exist.


Underneath your goodie two shoes
Is a dirty pair of socks
That you’re never gonna wash, no
You never could quite bite the bullet
You just sink into your bed
With a belly full of lead woes…

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