the bug bite on the arch of my foot

that tickles to touch,

but i scratch anyway

because any contact

is better than nothing


the drainage in the back

of my throat, because no matter

how many times i try to cough it up

it will always resonate

inside of me


the fake nail that keeps

popping off of my right hand

because i’ll glue it on once a week

just to watch it

tear away from me again


the charcoal after its turned gray

because it sat there, burning red hot

for hours, just to be left

as ash


getting belligerent drunk

because even though

one night felt like the time of your life,

you still awake the next morning

vomiting up regret


the miserable, regular

customer that expects

larger from me than what i can deliver,

because i know

i’ll soon become like them too

if i keep crawling

back to you.