everytime
i inhale my stomach turns
it screams as cats on traintracks,
i test myself.
i admit, if only
in the seclude of my room
by smoke and firelight,
i like the illness.
i look interesting
a little off colour,
pale grey thin
and yellow teeth
and hands of ice
and white dotting
my future.
these hands that shake
after too much or too little,
pick at any loose spots i can peel,
nod knowingly to anyone
with homemade pimples,
a gaunt kind of
bittersmile,
caloused thumbs,
shaky hands.
strange obsessions
and word games
learning new things
about the same thing
challenging trusts
with a wavered balance
between paranoia
and selfishness, need,
human nature.
attachments
built at the wrong hour
under the pretence
it is different.
a friend once asked me what ice was like
and i said its like life,
and i believe that.
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