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I have a headache and not enough time
to explain the irony of how I want to be
every pretentious poet making art out of
themselves, cutting open their side and writing
in blood and pixie dust; or how difficult
it is to make a good allegory out of carsickness
and household complacency. this

is every secret I ever hid. when I was 9
someone dissected the world in front of me,
showed me it was a living, wanting thing
and that I was just a lonely cell, functioning
through my dysfunction; when I was 11
the boy I liked told me he’d be interested
if I were prettier and I learned starvation
was more a state of mind than a presence
of being. when I was 13 I researched the lethality
of cleaning products, because god, I felt so dirty,
and nothing can clean you more than a couple cupfuls

of bleach. when I was 15 I was old and decrepit
and mostly dead, returning from war with flowers
for graves that weren’t filled and a heart of
tragedy, vulnerable and draped in every shade
of mourning for the people I loved that didn’t exist--
people with crippling mental illnesses
who’d already lost the battle with themselves
(the soldiers wilted like petals; we sent them off
but ultimately they died of neglect.) I’ve learned

sadness is a monster that’s terrified
of other people, but it’s still with me
when they leave-- hiding between pages
of my notebook, at the bottom of my pill bottle,
in her throat every time she says it’s my own
fault. that’s what nightmares are made of;
empty rooms, broken orb eyes, the demons
you weren’t brave enough to kill on your own.

I only look tired because I haven’t slept
since I found out I was dying. I guess we’re all dying,
some of us are just better at it than others.
the future has already been written, and
I’m stuck here, trying to paint unbeautiful things
and make poems out of dirt and relapses. tell me
that scars aren’t special, tell me someone will love me
fully clothed and honest. I don’t remember
the last time I answered the question how are you
without lying. tell me loneliness isn’t a disease,
and that I have something good inside of me. tell me
what demons keep you up at night. tell me

what your world is made of, and
I’ll cry with you.