This Demise

This Demise

I lay folded
in a fetal position inside
the box of my brain pumping
enough toxins to fill the Atlantic
damaged by my own hand

so I cut that fleshy disease
out of me only for it to regenerate
fueling the demon I work
so hard to cease from existing

I stay restless
on these tear-stained sheets
an empty vodka bottleĀ cupped
in the bend of my arm
flooding memories of smiles
I’ve misplaced
drown me to complacency
this settling of destruction fed
by laughs–a touch I’ve wished
to forget

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