21 soon


I took my first drag

When I was 15

Now, a pack a day doesn’t count

My lungs are charred


I had my first drink

When I was 16

Now, 10 shots of vodka are pre-game

To a wasted night out


I first slit my wrist

On my 17th birthday

And my left arm has scars

That I attribute to a car crash


I wrote my first story

When I was 18

About a doctor who murdered his wife and ate her heart

And my mother had me checked by a doctor


I was 19 when I had a chest full of secrets

As we sneaked whiskey in water bottles

And crashed by the sea

Only to discover how violent it is at night


When I turned 20

I showed them that I can tie a noose faster than my shoe lace

And that night I woke up at 3 am

To find that I had fallen asleep with the rope tucked in between my hands


I’m going to turn 21, soon

And now Im learning to live with myself

Figuring out why I write about broken individuals

Rather than love like my friends do


I’m trying to convince myself

That it is okay to live with monsters

Be it in daylight or underneath my bed

It is okay to realize that you’re one, too


Someone recently asked me, “war or peace?”

And I replied, “war”

Because at least then you don’t tie false hopes

But look forward to predictable destruction

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