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Description
There is a very fine line between fucked up and barely functioning
and I am losing my balance,
a walk-the-line test that I always pass
simply because I can't get drunk
or lose control.

I have spent seventeen nights
staring at a pill bottle
twelve evenings
downing the contents of a glass bottle,
tears in front of a mirror, reading
flippant replies from lost friendships--
he has everything that I still need

pretends that I can stand another year of waiting
spent that night screaming "fuck you!" at a tiny screen,
because he only had nine months of conscious hell
and I still want to drown myself in air
and alcohol,
my grandfather has a point--
nobody likes reality.