confessions

(number one)
i am in love
with the idea
of fickle love

of one night stands
and fuck buddies
and other
emotional
disasters

but
my life is
not
like the books
i read

and
i am not
reckless
enough
to satisfy
my cravings.

(number two)
i am
a narcissistic
bitch

who wants
to be loved
by anyone
that is willing
to listen to me
when i spew forth
my nothing nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing


and who tries
to turn
her lackluster life
into art
by writing
shitty poems
about nothing
nothing
nothing

bet i had you
fooled.
(bet.
i.
didn't.)

(three)
i just
want
to write something nice

like a book
or a poem
or a scribble
on a bathroom stall.

i’m not nearly
as bad as i think i am
but perhaps

i’m worse.

(four)
we never had much in common
anyways.

except
and overwhelming
desire
to be in love
with something
tangible

because art
and music
and words
don’t give you kisses

and ideas
forget to tell you
that they love you

and dreams
forget to call you
the next day.

(five)
it will get me in trouble. i'm tired of being in trouble.

(six)
i’m thinking
of taking up smoking
because i love the idea
of destroying
expectations

and also
i think
it would drive you
crazy
which is kind of funny
because you
want me dead
though you’d never
really say it
quite like that.


(seven)
my mother
keeps saying
it’s depression
as though
she’s not surprised
that i’m falling
apart

and my brother
and i
make jokes
about how shitty
everything in the world is
and then watch a movie

and my father
asks “whats wrong”
because he is out
of the loop
and he loves me too much

and i wonder
if this is what it’s always like
when you grow up.