maybe partial hospitalization is the answer.
I google it, and immediately flinch at the thought
of /needing/ that much.
‘I can take care of myself ‘.
‘I’m not that bad off’.
‘I’m not that kind of person’.
even while I think these thoughts,
I see the hypocrisy.
even while I see the hypocrisy,
I countinue to resist.
but I begged for help like a dog,
and now that it comes I refuse.
I turn my nose up to the sky.

hold me close.
/don’t/
I don’t need the sleeping sympathy
or low burning resentment.
back burner. back burner.
well, I can smell the smoke now.
I kind of like it. or maybe I just like that it’s
/mine/

you could have been, if you’d wanted that.
but you didn’t and I can’t blame you.
the rubber smell of the booth and
my claustrophobic sweat. I /swear/
I’m not a liar in the way you think I am.
just write your code. just forget me.
don’t talk to my friends.

if it ends, that’s okay. the vodka is
mostly tap water. the lying
gets /old/
like me.
I guess I’m the sort of person
who needs help. I would /never/
shame anyone else for that.
but I’m not anyone else.

I don’t have answers. or vigor
like I used to. I tell my therapist
I used to know who I was.
everything is /something to work on/
everything is expensive.
including forgiveness, that I drink
ounce after ounce after ounce.

truth is too sour for me lately.
and I crave salt and iron,
more than old book smell
or natural warmth or dirt.
the diet is just a haphazard punishment.
the punishment makes me feel /okay/
but okay leaves room for improvement.
and I feel the guilt flow in
before I even do the wrong thing.