i've been doing something different with the starts and stops. the rhythms of the way things fall out of my head. it's new and not that pleasing. which makes me happy and warm. these full glugs of cheap wine late after a bottle of scotch on a sunday morning. thick and almost sick. i'm not doing it here. that's just some kind of weak imagery that, like most things in my life, i should totally be ashamed of.
i can't believe you're gone. and i'm still here. the empty contents of a broken room. and all the dark spinning vapid moments of a once drunk poem spoken into answerphones. that you can't quite just get back.
hush. everything is nonsense. and there's no way. none. that i understand it all.
i used to be so goddamned ugly. and sad.