drafts or bottles?

51 bottles of drafts on the wall,

51 bottles of drafts

take one down pass it around


57 bottles of drafts.



the world is slowly unsaturating right in front of my eyes.

  1. there are some really beautiful things in this world, like revenge, the concept of blood money, and the self-marriage that happens within you when someone really breaks your heart.
  2. i used to look forward to when you’d pick me up from my house and we’d drive around. your car was like a place where time didn’t exist, even though i spent the whole time looking at the clock to see how much we had left.
  3. i liked you and trusted you when i was younger. i know because we used to go dancing together. then one year, you asked me to dance, and i wouldn’t dance with you.
  4. and i never danced with you again.


3/2/18, 7:46 PM.

i hate it here i hate this place it’s too cold and it’s so dark and it’s quiet in the wrong ways and loud in the wrong ways i can’t sleep without hearing everybody’s voices through the walls falling asleep with them in my head i can’t fall asleep for 45 minutes without a nightmare and waking up so angry i don’t know what happened to me waking up with them coursing and raging through my head.


count out all the degrees of your fever please.

time. everything is still and nothing flows but time.

i forget about time when i’m at school. i float through it when i’m there. it goes fast and it’s carefree. i mean, it isn’t, because i’m always on the line, strung out for someone, someplace, but it’s like i’m in a bubble. i don’t worry that i haven’t saved enough (no, i do) and i don’t worry that i’m falling apart (but i used to).

when i’m here, it feels even more like a bubble and i feel like i have made a huge mistake living happy and carefree in that bubble (was it happy and carefree? yes, when compared to the hellhole, everything else is by default completely happy and carefree). i panic and overflow. i take rain, dry land, all stagnate to mud.

because how could i forget? the entire bus ride home, i didn’t think for a second about what it would be like looking through this window again. i didn’t think about what it would look like if it rained (and it was raining). i didn’t think about what it would feel like to sit on my bed — the bed that used to be my bed? — again. i didn’t think about how quiet it would be here. i didn’t try to recollect what my room looked like. i didn’t try at all.

and the most unimaginable thing of all, i didn’t think about what it was like to be a person here, what it must still be like for the people left to be people here. i guess i am here to remember. but i know i couldn’t go back to it if i tried. it’s something i can still taste, but not something i can digest, i can’t make myself believe the lie that i belong here, that i will always belong here, that i will never be anything else.