From Waffle House at 1 AM

Torn between denial and a breakdown. I'm always torn between something and something else. Lillian took me home, but home is where the heart is so we just went round the cup de sac until we ran out of gas. Sojourner. Kind of like a wild heart but more tame and a little more blue. What's the worst possible outcome? Multiply it by two. I'm the broken heart searching for the noose. Stitch me up and call the doctor.

I got some sort of cardiac arrest on Wednesday. Doctors prescribed me the wrong antibiotics. You'd think I flipped out but (besides the pain) I was pretty calm. Still fucking hate hospitals. Still fucking hate me.

This isn't poetry. This isn't really prose. This is actually just my running thoughts 17 shots in. You'd think I know better. I'm just frustrated. Alone, surrounded. Bittersweet irony. I'm laughing but really in an internal kind of way. Pillow talk suicide. Body like a dragonfly. Eyes like bloom. Sinking flume on the picture frame. Pink feather on the alcohol tap. This one girl gives me the eye but it's only cause she's seen me around Fiji and she thinks I'm better than I am. Breaking the superstition and challenging the stereotype. I'm the pretty broken poet girls just want to fix. I'm unfixable, uninterested, and frankly, kind of an asshole. Why the starry eyes? Your image screams louder than my words ever could. I'm only writing because I'm lonely and I need to get this out before it kills me. In love with a lesbian. This is one hell of a life.

Note to sober me - relax and relax and relax. Maybe loneliness and a lack of love isn't that bad, but then again we both know better than that. You're welcome for the superficiality and escapism to tonight. And be proud, for a drunkard, you're fairly poetic and in a way, while in this condition you actually can break hearts. Artificially sweetened revenge.