For
My
City
My
bedroom
looks
like
a
war
zone,
Where
I
keep
my
inner
battles
Locked
up
in
dusty
corners.
Walls
are
my
witnesses,
The
negative
spaces
between
Cheap
paintings
hold
shadows
hostage.
Shapes
are
brought
to
life,
Haunting
me
with
Their
blank
stares
As
sweat
forms
on
the
window
Above
my
radiator.
My
clothes
are
strewn
across
The
room,
Like
souls
without
bodies.
My
skin
cells
are
in
every
speck
On
my
floor,
Shed
after
scratching
my
arms,
After
just
existing.
Just
existing
is
so
messy.
The
empty
cans
on
my
desk
Look
aggressive.
They
are
crushed
like
Picasso’s
portraits.
They
remind
me
of
what
I
drank
to
forget.
My
sheets
know
that
I
cry
When
buried
inside,
Entombed
in
their
warmth,
Embalmed
with
my
tears.
I
take
sleeping
pills