despair makes itself known in the in-betweens of thoughts and actions and it's this which wears us down

late-night wine and cookies and sweetbread. i used to like getting drunk. now i count calories and switch my full glass with their empties, smoke and smoke as if that'll stop me eating but it doesn't because alcohol inevitably manifests a fuck it then, i'll eat whatever mindset and i find myself hiding in the kitchen in the dark early hours eating pita chips too fast, trying to fill that aching before my brain catches up. 


you're right, Andy. i've lost my fire. where have i sloughed off to? 


how is it i've gotten here, where the decision to choke to death or stop throwing up is one made lightly, not made at all, in which i wait five minutes, lean over, heave and pray?

i'm in this vortex of hipbones and calories. i just want to not feel. i'll dye my hair brown again and change my name to something forgettable, wear blandness on my face and grow lighter and lighter because bones cannot feel the way flesh feels so unbearably. 


don't let me go there. but it's all i want. but don't let me go.