The distance between how you see yourself and how others see you.

The you that’s in focus of both.

The distance between real emotions in yourself.

The you that exists only in the distances.

Wearing a mask that looks exactly like your face.

Getting nowhere but trying harder and harder.

Shivering at the bus stop.

Wind going through your ripped jacket.

Looking for openings to jump into, always.

Always looking.

Bullet holes in your coffin.

So many bullet holes in your coffin.

A legacy of nightmares for everyone you’ve known.

Because you’re in pieces already so why not hand them out.

Just give up.

Pay what’s owed before it’ s due and take what you can before it’s gone.

Finding a clearing or clearing everything along the way.

A tour you guide for a self only seconds in the past moving forward with little understanding.

No longer what went wrong but how anything went right.

And more and more bricks from heaven.
Bricks to kill the bricks that kill us.

Thanking the person who’s hurt you most by head - butting off their horns and using them for your own.

Which means haha motherfucker, look what you did.

Glad for any decisions at all — not because they were right, but because whatever, fuck it.

New problems.

Sitting in the kitchen watching the freezing gray cover the skyline.

Missing everything and everyone all the time and never quite prepared to admit it.

The anxiety of living the things you don’ t want to admit.

False-bottomed coffins to dig even deeper.

Digging through your false-bottomed coffin to hide and catch whatever tries to dig you up.

Pulling under whatever tries to dig you up.

Pulling under whatever tries to dig you so you can spoon with it.

New looks on the same dead you.

The same dead you trying the same dumb shit.

Thinking, ‘I look ugly’ whenever you see yourself in the mirror.

A cast completely enclosing your head.

A cast completely enclosing your head, on fire.

Having to ask for mercy from the one who lit it.

Having to know the right words.

Or just kneeling down and letting your head burn.

Hey man sometimes you just have to kneel down and let your head burn.

Never in love.

Two broken lawnmowers in the dumpster.

A smashed dollhouse in the alley, surrounded by drug needles.

‘Christmas in July’ as slang for suicide.

A way to return inward for peace no matter what, but always forgetting.

Moments of remember ing you don’t hate yourself you hate how you choose to act based on having to choose because of everything else. And that’s shitty.