Those aren't working.
I can still feel myself sleeping.
Never numb enough to kill the ache.
Barely sedate.
And sometimes I put my hands around my
neck to cut off the oxygen to my brain.
And I'm floating high above myself,
high above everyone else.
You can't reach me,
but it's always never enough.
I keep coming back fast, crashing down,
coming back
fast.
I needed some help.
No one was around.
And like the money and the drugs,
there was always
never enough.
Always
never enough.
Always never enough.
Always never enough.
I know
where the tallest trees grow.
The sturdiest branch.
The lonely place.
The only place.
My place.
My place.
My place.
And I never feel alone here.
Ever as long as I feel surrounded by your emptiness.
The lonely place.
The only place.
And as I climb,
I grasp for the last thread of regret,
a chord of hope.
But then it's slipped just out of reach.
I'm almost there now.
So close.
All the blood
is rushing to my head.
Floods of nausea making me feel more alive.
My expectations.
My expectations
of flight.
Suspension as I leap as high as I can
for that dark black space in the corner
of my mind that I've always tried to find.
Always tried to fly.
Try to find.
Try to fly.