so wretched
i am placed against
the wind, facing you

to my left
the ashtray, like a cemetery
with so many cigarette filters
protruding from the sand
they remind me of a grave (head)stones
scattered and bent
(mostly broken)
in an ancient and lonely
(but mostly abandoned)
graveyard, sanctuary for the dead

so wretched
and suddenly i want to touch
them all with my bare fingertips
i want to feel where
mouths have been
inhaling their poison of choice
suddenly, i wish i were the word
(poison)

my room, this place around me
is filled with empty sheets of paper
but my arms are covered
in pen--ink--words
the finality of writing about
the pale, faded light that reaches
my eyes through a fog
of painful discontent
on paper
(in fine black ink) is just...
so wretched
and i can only comfort myself
with the thought
that my ideas deserved to
be washed away
while my skin is rubbed raw
and my hair torn out
my words will be forgotten
(disolved) into nothingness
as the bathwater crowds the drain

maybe this time it'll be real
maybe this time it'll be final
and i will learn my lesson
and never do that again
"but if i want to, i can."
said aloud to the cold, unfeeling
bathroom walls, standing around me in harsh silence
again, i find myself wishing that i were the word
(poison)
because no matter how long i soak
no matter how hard i scrub
(till i bleed)
i will always be
so wretched
retrospect and moonlight stained
with the exotic flavor of (arificiality)
and soon my pens will be devoid of ink
and all i'll have will be a
ring around the tub
and my blank sheets of sterile paper
(satisfied in their defiance, i can hear them)
(l a u g h i n g)