The night always arrives on time. I’m wiping the makeup off my eyes with calloused palms.

Cigarette stench.

Gripping porcelain.

When will I let myself learn how to get better?

Everyone keeps saying that I haven’t been myself lately. They scream through my silence. I’m not an empty hollow for you to throw your echos. I’m not your healing. I’m not anything at all.

Lately, I’ve been fixated by flowers that bloom at night- I love how the darkness feeds them. Putting a show on for the moon. Drop the curtain because I’m tired of performing. Drape me in these flowers and let me rest in peace even though I’m still alive. I’m still very much alive. I really don’t want to hear about your definition of being alive. It’s just a verb that we have no control over.

Wilting doesn’t always mean dying.

These tricky habits are more of a choice than we think- but I love the way nicotine hits my tongue. Let me try to bully my body into obeying my every wish- it never does. It never does. It never does.

Lately I’m the shell of a version of myself. And I’m not sure how well I’m going to like her- but she’s here to stay for awhile. So please leave me in a pile of soil- let me mourn the morning light as every piece of me wilts into the new day.

Waiting for that moon water to feed me.

The night always arrives on time.

AMT