4 days off meds

i like to do my crying in hot bathwater,
to fill the tub with glassy blues and greens,
then me,
all questions and itches and bloodrush fantasies.

like when i see people,
i’m obsessed with what they think of me:
my legs and my broken arm and my humor,
those flailing comments in recitation,

why i like glasses and hate skirts,
why i have a ‘pager’ on my belt,
why i don’t wear makeup,
why i like girls but not boys,
why i got with her,
why i broke up with her,
why i got with the next one,
why i started smoking,
why i stopped,
why i take medicine to numb up,
why it kinda makes sense that i avoid people these days.

does everyone think i’m an asshole?
my roommate tells me he does.
i’m insecure but i’m trying.
does anyone see that?
i’m dying to know.

like sometimes i think i know what
death in a plane crash feels like.
the crush of bodies and bones and seatbelts,
an even flare of warmth,
dull-deaf roaring,
then snap-dissolve to white.
but those are just dreams, i think.

i’d rather die in this bath anyway, so
i shave and try not to cut myself,
though a nick here and another there
have me bleeding into the wet.

i wonder if i’m fucking insane
or just another narcissist.
maybe not. maybe both.

things to do instead of getting high:

write a list, write a poem, go for a run, cook something, play bananagrams, do readings, call your girlfriend, finish your lab, check Facebook, tag your girlfriend in strange memes, text her till you miss her, feel it hurt, make a to-do list, do something on that to-do list, masturbate, file your taxes, read one of those fiction books on the bedside table, ride your bike, make your bed, listen to love songs, do the laundry, clean the tub, take down the old christmas decorations, watch a show, organize your desk, call your siblings, call your mom, ask for pictures of the cat, daydream about summer, about a family.

almost ready

i dug myself a well
just to be alone down here
at the bottom.

ignoring light and sound
i sit, knees tucked,
on the damp leaves and crumpled cigarettes,
the dirt and the vine.

i will not look for answers.
i will not metabolize,
and i will not consume.

she calls for me above,
up there in the blue forever,
but i take a drag
and pull my legs closer to my chest.
i rest my forehead on
the cool, wet stone.

i know i need to leave this place,
but right now
i can’t handle anything,
anything at all,
so i smoke and smoke till
haze descends
and i forget, fall asleep.