Peripheral

I know that the happier I become, the more it’s going to hurt,

the rawer I’ll have to scrub myself to have a chance of scratching out the chalky lines and scribbling new ones over my eyelids,

It’s alright to be addicted to things, it gives you something to look forward to.

Let’s edge out of this slowly, with mittens and scarves,

Twist the tuning slide to muffle the turning pages,

Closing the book is easy but only because I know that I will find a thumb jammed into the spine every time,

It’s rarely mine,

But hope is a sickness, I believe it’s held in the chest, I haven’t learned to cough,

Regret through the temples, thrumming with the vibrations of a couch-spring coil, and the

Guilt in the stomach, I haven’t been hungry for a while now, I can’t even look at food, hell,

I can’t even look myself in the eye.