My Numbered Days

17 cups of coffee

Just 1 more to make you feel the right amount of alive

If you shake enough, no one will notice the fact that you haven’t been able to sleep in 3 days

It feels like years, 7 to be precise, but you haven’t been able to sleep in 3 days

Probably because you drank 17 cups of coffee

Or maybe some other reason


3,676 miles between Dallas and Hilo

3,676 miles between the cause and the effect

Between what you were taught and what you learned

Between thinking that it would always be that way and knowing that that is not true

1 haunted house- you are the house


4,559 miles between Tampa and Hilo

4,559 miles between deciding to try and actually trying

Lonely echoes in an empty mind maybe finding an audience

53 weak heartbeats per minute

Screaming even though there may not be anything but a hollow chest- your hollow chest

Pretending to feel the air filling up 2 lungs that beg to burst


36,070 feet to the bottom of the ocean

They call it the Mariana Trench but you call it Tuesday considerations

If only that seemed like enough fullness, enough emptiness, enough whatever

Falling into the void and hoping it hasn’t missed you too much

Knowing now that the ocean will never really leave you behind


2 thoughts: try harder and let it go- Adderall days and Xanax nights

That in between is the stuff of nightmares, your nightmares to be precise

.5 bottle of whisky before you can actually fall asleep to have nightmares

You see, if they happen during the day they get called wishful thinking

Your friend told you to take deep breaths in lasting 5 seconds

You tried that once and then promptly deleted her number


Countless nights counting stars and trying not to wish you were dead

Staring up and realizing the irony of considering death while looking at a graveyard of stars

It’s beautiful really- the way not being able to get dirt out from under your fingernails is beautiful

Countless nights and most of them you won’t talk about

Just like you don’t talk about the familiar taste of cough syrup and vodka


24 years of running

A quarter of a century of nobody telling you that once you start running you never get to stop

You can never figure out if you started running away or running towards

Or if there is a difference at all

24 years of a marathon and you haven’t moved an inch

The finish line is a dream that sometimes looks like a cliffside or a really tall building


You can count on 1 hand the number of times you have felt comfortable

So at peace with what is happening inside of your head and outside of your eyes

The fake smile is more a part of you than the scars on your arm

You can count on 1 hand the number of times someone has cared enough to ask and listen

Not waiting to save you but waiting to understand


Infinite new starts and trying to play it cool when you are anything but cool

A million foot taps and probably a million more coming

They said your mind is a deathbed

You finally decided that if that was true, you were going to bring some goddam flowers

Mostly hoping for the best

Still sometimes catching yourself hoping for the worst

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