There Are Monsters In My Veins

“why do you always write such sad poems about some guy?”

the flowers in the garden of your ribcage are perished and wilted, so you color your hair a bright shade of green in the hope that if you transform the outside, you may transform on the inside. remember how van gogh used to eat yellow paint?

the room around you caves in and the only way to stop it is with a shot of absinthe and a drunken drag of pall mall at a house party you don’t want to be at and all your friends are laughing because they think you’re funny when you’re drunk, but little do they know that’s the only way you can forget about the shake of your hands as you think about the future and the ache in your heart as you reminisce the past.

you kiss every boy at the party because something inside of you is numb and you want to feel a flicker of a feeling even if it’s just for a millisecond, so you take a few more shots, gaze into their eyes as if they were your long-lost lovers that returned from war and you try to absorb yourself into their lingering cologne, but when you’re done, the after-taste of your guilt and shame is so adamant that you wish you could never feel a thing again.

your tongue takes a life of its own every time you get nervous and before you can even begin to collect your thoughts together, the venom in your throat is pouring out and spilling itself onto any vacant spot it can find, forever etched onto the surface.

you never call your mom because hearing her complain about the times you don’t call home and how you never go home makes you want to crawl out of your skin and scatter your remains in the deep, dark ocean.

“you always write about the same guy, that’s so pathetic”

yes. it’s pathetic. maybe even a little neurotic.

but it’s a lot easier to project your sadness onto someone else rather than dealing with the monsters in your veins.