The slightly intoxicating fumes of the super glue that is my false sense of reality.
What's broken with me is fixed
with superglue
until the acetone that is my thoughts rampages through
breaking down my superglue
then each time
i need
another
hand
there's a sticky note in my head
"don't tell them"
(p.s tell them)
i beat myself up after doing what the sticky note says
then acetone rampages
and it's a cycle.
YOU ARE READING
This is Self Destructive
PoetryA compilation of poems that don't fit in. Kind of like me.
