Odd jobs, odder income,
I tried to make my money stretch,
but it can’t even touch its toes.
Tried to get better,
but I’m still full of woe.
Vincent Van Gogh,
I watch tarot readings
and delude myself into feeling loved.
Let the melancholy swallow me
new capsules rattling;
white pills like a white lotus,
taking the hydroxyzine so I won’t want to find an exit.
Taking another rip so I don’t have to worry.
The days when I’m not smoking
are nonexistent,
the days when I am smoking
are a black hole of lost consciousness,
time starting to be something that feels outside of me,
something I can feel but not experience,
like the fridge in the kitchen calling my name,
the flame in my hand lighting one more bowl.