fuck fresh air.

i crave the fog
of nicotine,
and the skin diseased,
soak rattling
stench of used
booze bottles.

Strewn all over my one room floor,
along with crumpled,
baseball sized
emotions thrown away
like used condoms.

fuck going outside.

the truth is exposed
underneath wounds.
staring down the barrel
of my .44 caliber
im reminded of the shit stain
i left
when leaning over the edge to find out
what was left of my past life.
at that moment i realized
i cant change.

these moments of suicide-
all alone and bleeding,
staring at a white wall
soaked in gun powder,
is when im awake
and conscious.

when the sun finally rises,
the prison i live in
is still darkened–
too afraid to wake up
and find my tombstone.


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