Confession

The parasite I live for, my constant companion.

I am happy.

I am happier than one can be

If happy is another name for Misery

because then my Happy is endless.

It's a sick kind of misery,

a kind I've written of before.

It eats me from the inside out

but gives just enough 

to keep me living off it evermore. 

.

It's a dirty kind of misery.

One I can't quite place.

Each day I saunter from place-to-place

with such broken elegance

I feel as if I'm floating,

my puppeteer gently tugging those strings. 

.

It''s the kind of misery I cannot live without,

the kind of misery that taunts me

and keeps my mind occupied for hours

with thoughts of atrocities. 

.

I focus on a spot,

i let that spot consume me.

The name,

cocaine,

it soothes me.

I'd never do drugs,

I'd never drink,

I claim this time and time again,

but why do I need it,

something I've never experienced,

something a naive young girl like me knows nothing about,

yet I dream of it.

I think about it all day long,

snorting

and an assortment of needles too

not to feel alive of course,

but to feel nothing-

to feel nothing at all. 

Sometimes I sit in the dark

and I wheep,

I wheep for such atrocities as those

for they are horrid

but I want them

I NEED them

an addiction to something I've never known.

.

That is not all.

I'm in desperate need of hurt.

Desperate need of pain.

Desperate need of nothing

need of death.

I do not want to die,

I simply want to feel nothing.

When I don't think of atrocities

My heart is pinned to dark Angels.

These dark angels change from time to time

but there remains a constant-

they are sick.

Bowie is my love,

my life,

my light,

he heals me in every which way

but there are other Angels too.

Those such as Joe Van Moyland

that sick little man

bone with a tight layer of skin

with floppy hair

have you seen that man

so sick

so grotesque

how can I not admire it.

I look at the healthy and I cringe,

I look at the sick and addicted

and I swoon.

I see these sick monsters whom

I've conjured up the idea that

monsters like them know the secret,

the secret to nothing

and secret to misery. 

.

As my grades plummet

and quality fades

I leave friends behind

to spend my hours in a dark room, 

starving myself silly

daydreaming of atrocities

and dark Angels

so that I may fill my body with misery

and maybe someday achieve the ideal

of nothing. 

Reviews

[DCT ponderings]

Wow! You definitely lead the reader down the rabbit hole. I call these wounded birds. I wrote about one such tormented soul in my poem Indifference. Dark but Great write.