filtering out the melancholy
i could write a novel
based on the transitory way
in which i smoke cigarettes
like nicotine is my forlorn lover
and i’ll hate-fuck myself over
wishing for a greater alternative
to this love-hate game i play with myself
like in every single heartbeat of
inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale
i would escape my new
and ever-lengthening tragedy
all there is is you and me
and this aching regret
combined with all the puking
which leaves me feeling
retributed more than better
and i could suck cancer out of this stick
but this drag is more
self-destructive than the last
and the taste of self-loathe
leaves me humble
and aching for more
while i look for reflections of myself
in the rorschach-blot yellow of the filter