Literature
cannibal
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