A brief justification for the ontological necessity of modern man’s existential dilemma (Also: I’m dumb) 

I used to talk a lot,
but I tend to let wine and cigarettes speak for me nowadays
and the words I write down lose everything I put into them when they’re read aloud
and it’s strange, looking at your face in the mirror
remembering things
imagining things
and it’s strange, learning how to feel comfortable in your own skin again 
because the only thing harder than loving someone else is loving yourself
and no one teaches you how to do either at the start of it all
and every fucking day it becomes less of a game of pinball and more like making breakfast
you know what you need to do, what you have to do,
for you
and for him
there is routine and structure and a set outcome
instead of flailing around aiming for something without knowing why -
pushing buttons and leaving things to chance.
Some things work out because of reasons.
Some things don’t work out because of the same reasons.

There are no words to describe how it feels when you can’t fucking itch that scratch
for the dialogue you have with yourself alone in your bed trying to convince yourself that everything you’ve ever done hasn’t been a waste
that your body isn’t made up of the same decaying organic matter as everything else because you are made of dead stars and there’s something gorgeous and horrifying about that.
When you die, 
                      nothing happens.
When you live,
                       a lot of nothing happens,
but there are a lot of somethings that make the nothings worth something.
No one had the fucking nerve to tell me that,
so I made it up to give me something else to believe in besides butchered religion and pseudo-science
it’s not all about hypotheses and proving something to yourself
                                                   proving something is right
                                               or proving something is wrong
                              it’s about the proof itself
that it exists somewhere in your words
and in your wheezes
in the warmth of a cheek despite how cold you are inside and outside
in not knowing how to live
in not knowing how to live, but trying to
in not knowing how to try,
but making yourself get out of bed in the morning and putting your face on because no one knows what to do when you keep smiles and scowls in your pockets

and my pockets hold cigarettes
                          and lighters
                          and my face
and the things that make me talk to you when I don’t have anything to say,
but I’ll keep telling you about how my fingers hurt from trying to make music
and how the music goes to places where no one listens
and how the voices get sucked into a vacuum 
and how I am the vacuum that swallows myself 
and how there is no place that exists where you can escape yourself
and how my body is constantly doing things that I don’t fucking understand 
and how there are marks that never fade 
and how there are so many things to tell you
and how there are so many things I can never tell you
and how there are so many ways I can’t love you 

                                                                         
                                                                          but some ways I can.