ColoringTheRain

i'm on the wrong side of sunrise. five a.m. and i'm clutching at straws and porcelain tiles, convulsing at the bathroom sink. i'm rabid - a gray-matter froth on my lips, a clawing at the inside of my skull. i'm romanticising. if i were truly tragic, i might be worth something. i wish i could be Hemingway, and make my demons sing for me. they haven't sung in years. quiet specters, bearing witness to my brain devouring itself. i sleep in fits and starts, dawn to noon - i dream so rarely. i feel as though i should feel something. i ride the waves. i shove my way through a crowd of faceless ghosts. they whisper to me - they hiss that i have