Sometimes I write poetry that grips the darkness in my soul. In hopes that if I keep writing my darkness down, I might rip it out. Like pulling tooth with a pair of rusty pliers just to get a quarter from a non-existent tooth fairy.
Sometimes I curl into a ball in the middle of the bathroom floor. Tucking knees and elbows in front of my bruised and swollen heart, so that maybe each achingly slow pump of blood through my veins wouldn’t be an icepick hammered into my chest.
Sometimes I sing lullabies to myself. On the nights where the air is think in my lungs and the pill bottles seem enticing, like cheap hooker standing on poorly lit street corners.
Sometimes I say too much. I speak until the words are just a collection of sounds stuck to my tongue: until “I love you” and “worthless” start to sound the same.
Sometimes I watch the children play in street. Feeling their laughter bounce off the empty hallways of my mind, until the sun sets and the children race their shadows home in the hopeless and eternal attempt to outrun the night.