foreign spaces

this place was still citrus scented and rectangular
i remember the chairs and the door that just wouldn't latch

the walls had shrunk into themselves while i'd been away
i could barely see the etchings of my dreams on the curtains

cigarette butts deteriorated on the balcony, and my books
still had creases in the corners where i had left them

this place had almost been home, even on the days
i wanted to burn it to the ground with myself in it.

sickness and art

it was one of those cold evenings in november 
where rain spilled against the windows
and the sky lit up with shards of lighting
ambient music ricocheted around me in pulses 

and with every hit and every swig i could feel
myself becoming less of an artist

i could feel myself collapsing and thawing 
into an avalanche of wasted adolescence
i had chosen destruction over artistry 
and sat in my dark room still on rising high
i couldn’t help but think about the regrets
that were creeping up into my airways
and smothering me into mediocrity.