Why do I feel 

this way?

Why do I always give you the benefit of the doubt and never cut myself

the same slack? 

words 

      spew and 

               make a larger

                             mess of things.

 I can never seem to find words that truly ever suffice. 

Vernacular lackluster. 

Simplified to failed efforts.

I--

slice my tongue off and 

Eat it

I--

gouge my brain, and devour it . 

you--

still appear to me in the place 

behind these eyelids,

 the only place you seem to meet me. 

[...]When I awake, I drown in a drunken stupor of regret. Regret of 

what . . . what I said. 

 what I gave, 

what 

didn’t happen

what

           I couldn’t give you

what

I didn’t give myself.