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Literature Text
you smell like crystal meth overdoses.
(not that i know what that smells like)
this is more than your overthecounter
tylenol prescription. you're more than
a prescription (and i hate rhyming but)
you're an addiction, a malediction even.
a subscription to a magazine i wouldn't
read -- just stare at the pretty pictures.
stare at the pictures. become abducted
by jealousy. tear out my eyes. eat them.
tear out my mouth. eat it. realise that's
absurd. not care. care. not care. care.
not care. care not. carry your picture
in my wallet. the one where you're in
nothing but socks and shame. i won't
tell you this is my favourite (because i
lost my mouth to my stomach) but it is
(in my wallet for a reason.
you know how broke i am.
i've spent all my money on
pills i can't ingest. but you
know what? fuck my doctor
and my pharmacist and my
drugdealer. oh wait that's
you, my bad. no nevermind,
you're just the DRUG i used
to DEAL with life. whatever)
no, i'm not a crackhead.
i prefer the term addict.
i prefer the term desire.
i prefer the term in lust.
in lust is a phrase, dipshit
i prefer the phrase: "you're cured."
(but we both know that's absurd.)
i prefer the term: medicated.
you prefer the term: tricked.
(for a disease, you're pretty
cunning. or just pretty. who
knows? not me, obviously. i
ate my eyes. not the point.)
what they don't teach you
in rehab: what to do when
you run out of bottles. how
to handle a panic attack. or
the side effects of rejection.
(see: obsessions.
see: withdrawals.
see: your picture,
my wallet. oh you
know this already)
the cut-up magazine pictures
tell me to look in my medicine
cabinet. i do but reluctantly.
what the fuck am i supposed
to do when i find a note that
says: i lied; i'm no analgesic.
this is called the placebo effect,
though i prefer the term Deceit.
(not that i know what that smells like)
this is more than your overthecounter
tylenol prescription. you're more than
a prescription (and i hate rhyming but)
you're an addiction, a malediction even.
a subscription to a magazine i wouldn't
read -- just stare at the pretty pictures.
stare at the pictures. become abducted
by jealousy. tear out my eyes. eat them.
tear out my mouth. eat it. realise that's
absurd. not care. care. not care. care.
not care. care not. carry your picture
in my wallet. the one where you're in
nothing but socks and shame. i won't
tell you this is my favourite (because i
lost my mouth to my stomach) but it is
(in my wallet for a reason.
you know how broke i am.
i've spent all my money on
pills i can't ingest. but you
know what? fuck my doctor
and my pharmacist and my
drugdealer. oh wait that's
you, my bad. no nevermind,
you're just the DRUG i used
to DEAL with life. whatever)
no, i'm not a crackhead.
i prefer the term addict.
i prefer the term desire.
i prefer the term in lust.
in lust is a phrase, dipshit
i prefer the phrase: "you're cured."
(but we both know that's absurd.)
i prefer the term: medicated.
you prefer the term: tricked.
(for a disease, you're pretty
cunning. or just pretty. who
knows? not me, obviously. i
ate my eyes. not the point.)
what they don't teach you
in rehab: what to do when
you run out of bottles. how
to handle a panic attack. or
the side effects of rejection.
(see: obsessions.
see: withdrawals.
see: your picture,
my wallet. oh you
know this already)
the cut-up magazine pictures
tell me to look in my medicine
cabinet. i do but reluctantly.
what the fuck am i supposed
to do when i find a note that
says: i lied; i'm no analgesic.
this is called the placebo effect,
though i prefer the term Deceit.
Literature
letter to a psych somewhere
after my mother told me i would be getting a shrink, i daydreamed of all the things i would tell you about myself, how i am sometimes irreparably lonely and how on long car trips i sometimes stay awake for periods of time training my eyes to be unfocused over the white lines on interstate highways, or i sleep with my feet tucked underneath the floorboard carpets, or i read kurt vonnegut novels. after my mother told me she wanted me to talk to someone, i panicked.
here are some things you should know about me: i memorise poetry for fun. i would have an entire vonnegut novel engraved on my tombstone if it would fit. i am good at lying to oth
Literature
Letters To a Loved One
You left me with a letter, and your body empty on the floor.
I dont know how to look at you any more.
I dont know how to speak.
Behind my eyes youre tattooed in living ink
a broken lullaby, a hated memory.
I cant sleep with the thoughts, the wonderings.
Im afraid to leave you alone in the house.
(You could do it again. And this time )
...
You didnt read between the lines.
My hand trembled over those words I spoke the truth,
and you missed it.
You couldnt hear; you couldnt see my voice.
In every dream Im drowning.
Please.
Find the strength to
Literature
bromide and other nonchemicals
shes empty mouthed.
she cant explain but its like that pins and needles feeling except in her heart. its like she could have said twelve thousand and four different things and she picked the wrong one. its the way shes no good with words except she tries forcing her ideas into verses and stanzas and neatly packaged displays of her individualism. so its as if shes set up an exhibit in her mind, complete with glass windows for people to press their handprints into, staining her already disheveled head with traces of themselves. shes empty mouthed since she just realized that not a single bi
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except drugs are icky.
(is 18 post-teen yet ?)
coming soon: to apothecaries everywhere
(except how archaic and useless they are)
(is 18 post-teen yet ?)
coming soon: to apothecaries everywhere
(except how archaic and useless they are)
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I need my picture back!!!