As I was posing for pictures in public bathrooms,
I was concaving—rolling, smoking this world into a doom.
And the people close to me didn’t realize my absence,
So I scraped my knees and blocked calls
From drunk assholes.

You know
The story, the normalized verses of insanity.
And I’m tired of commercialized versions of instability.
I finally found a moment to put self care first—
But let me tell you:
Self care doesn’t rid of all the toxic woes.

I still find lingering bursts,
Clinging to words,
And passing by with a thirst.
And I realized in my hearse
That I don’t want to live in conformity.
I’d rather eat, breathe, and die in peace.

And to George,
My dear intergalactic companion:
I don’t care the galaxies that intertwine
Into implosions of the sleep and the divine.
I still rest assured with my words so misunderstood
And the secret encounters that refuel my darkest passengers.

If there’s a color for what I’m feeling,
Then it must not yet be created (but soon).
Because I’ve been running on the edge,
On the last of absurdist fumes.

And I know that Sisyphus and I
Have a lot in common.
We’re susceptible to the unremarkable,
And it’s remarkable,
That our rock has yet to fall
And kill us in the process.

I’ve been reading less and hearing less,
And steering clear of fearing less.
And less is more, I’m so damn sure,
The sirens I hear still unfurl.

But soon

I’ll be reading more and hearing more,
And steering toward a life of more.
A year or less, I’m so damn sure,
I’ll unravel and let travel unfurl.

I’m sick of talking to people
And my diary
Of my dreams beyond the hill
And the hell of normativity
And my dreams to break free.

I’ll grab my matcha and I’ll flee.

I’ll still be picking roses and trashing my mental notes.
Plucking temper tantrums
And berating my wrong choices.
In a world where I find myself associated—and relatively close—to nearby figures,
I continue to find myself out-casted,
Blacklisted,
And misperceived.

Sipping my tea,
And purging the bullshit,
I know wholeheartedly:
No one will ever know me.