I spend most nights
smoking parliaments in my parents’ hot tub,
watching the smoke blend with the steam.
Losing sight of which is which,
of who I am,
of what I need.
The media tells me,
short text messages,
But my body tells me something different.
My body tells me,
I am not
skin on warm grass,
spoonful’s of honey every morning.
Keeping myself soft
Many people confuse the two.
My dad says I run in my dreams,
my blankets messy in the morning,
all my pillows on the floor,
redness smeared on my face like blood.
But what am I running from?
I always wake up wondering
if there are doctors out there,
that can cure this rotting inside of me.
The kind I can’t explain.
The kind that rips my stomach open.
The kind that keeps my 22-year-old body
In my parents’ house.
In this steamy hot tub.
In the mouth of cigarette,
Feeling more loved by them,
then anything else that has
touched my lips before.