it roars in my head when it’s quiet
otherwise
low-level vibes through the walls
of my room
can’t tell if it’s real or a trick
an ear-frequency
of tinnea perhaps
everything smells old
and I’m so tired of sitting with
the best way I know
to self-harm without blood
by running all over things
with the mind
to leave
no visible wound
late at night I feel
crazy?
plan bold things to say
but in the day
just murmur
nice girl, nice, girl, nice girl,
no offence,
like
I always do anyway
while I watch me
fucking up
in the nicest possible way
a child
with a picture inside
that comes out
all shit and nothing like
do you know
that devastation, desperation
utterly impossible
to replicate
the moment of realisation
so much later
and the life
I built
in that far city
failed
a farce, uncoordinated dance
in the dark
reaping the sour seeds sown
grown mundane weeds
and from outside
nothing
shows
clairevetica 