i am sisyphus,

he who pushes the boulder up the mountain

only to see it roll down just before the summit,

eternally.

i am the boulder

who spends my whole life reaching –

but when i’m close, i start at rock bottom

all over again.

i am an addict,

who stays clean for a couple of days

only to count twelve hours the next time,

failing once more.

i am victim to a shameful addiction,

is there even treatment?

cleanliness is a myth,

for the boulder never reaches the peak.

languid limbs and arching spines

messy and gross,

words that describe the addiction 

and me.

i am the drop that falls from the girl’s mouth,

slow, lazy, a sign of imperfection

in an industry that demands perfection.

her hourglass body a ticking time bomb,

counting down the years, months, days, hours, minutes,

seconds until this dependency

destroys me.

i imagine caving into my hollow ribs,

devoid of a beating heart,

because how can someone who loves

be physically dependent on this kind of filth?

instagram comments call me “cute,”

friends call me “pure” and “uncorrupted”

while i’m afraid to touch you,

in fear i might do something unforgivable.

i wish i could be pure. 

clean. 

perfect.

but i am not sisyphus, the man who tries.

no, i am sisyphus,

the man who fails.