My New Eyeliner

... runs in perfect black streaks down my face when I cry.

I punctuate sentences with cigarettes these days.

Alone in the house. Alone.
Alone.
Write it down; own it. You asked for it.

If it wasn't for the stars that, when night falls into light, still shine beyond the azure veil... well if it wasn't for them, I'd be ten times the mess that I am right now.

You should know who you are. You few, but with abundance, whose love is sent via text-messages, voicemails, and long-distance phone calls. I can only thank you from the bottom of my torn heart. I would need checking-up on if it weren't for you all checking up on me.

And I can't help this feeling of multiplicity that scrapes at the windows of my brain. And I can't get them to take turns. And I can't even go to the fucking bathroom at work without tearing up, being alone amplifies their sound and it turns me upside-down, shakes out everything in my pockets and leaves me broke, broken. And they say the grass is greener. And if you pretend you're a robot it keeps your voice from slipping into sadness on the phone.

I'm selfish.
I'm selfish because I want to know.
Because I love him and maybe I shouldn't say it.
I'm selfish because I want what isn't possible.
Because I wish I could make things right.
Self-ish.
Self.
-ish.
Not completely myself. Just self-ish.

"You sound like you're doing alright..."

The truth is I can't even speak to him without choking. He knows my robot switch, and without effort turns my face into a faucet.