Rubbing moisturizer on reenacting pain
documenting it as an act of self-care
break when you can’t build
filling carts with bits, gulp guilty air
notes like a pyromaniac’s fave gasoline.

Organize my week into a Jenga tower
spend hours agonizing, waiting, biting
over their right-hand alignment
scream pretty words of encouragement
whisper chance 5-second nosedives
dazzled variety, give me butterflies.

Open your eyes, feel like prey?
conjuring floor tiles as radioactive
three heartbeats dream of rebooting
looping longing
take box cutters to my personalities
watch them war with surround sound.

Choose yourself
Choose three words
Choose habits

Live-stream intentions
Make 2025 your year
If I can do it, you can too.

Well, here’s six.
Scurry off with your 2018 advice.

Hello numbness, my old friend
didn’t think I’d text you so soon
wonder how many thoughts I leave
with antagonistic tensing forecasts
hoarding footage of wreckages
circumventing in melodic detail.

Ennui, you meta threatening malady
chewing on lids, skin where bones bind
open canned susceptibilities with twists
can’t risk fresh without staking totality
dethrone the broker coaxing us to settle.

I’ve doused letdown’s cologne
molded manors in my mind
so I don’t face—
now I write monthly plans in black ink
managing margins of errors
while animating my rogue players.

Unfiltered Author’s Notes:

1. One month of 2025 feels like a year.

2. The first and last stanzas are inspired by Halsey’s Gasoline.

3. At times, I want to ask advice peddlers to fuck off. Instead, I write.