I am killing myself tonight, baby.

I am drugged by your nonchalance;

I am quickly desiring for a taxi to take me back to Ras Al Khaima,

where I was myself all the time. Not fearing my own room,

when in fact, this is where I disappear from the scent of cinnamon,

orbiting to your pretentious emergence and gentle neglections.

Tonight I fear the same room,

Where I locked myself in to rot,

where all good memories sleep – I feel little ants crawling

and eating my lungs slowly –I feel the sound of my body breaking

like china down from the seventh floor, where I have stopped

sweating – where I have forgotten that I have friends –

where my spirit served its own funeral.


when you are my entire world and I have found myself


Celebrating my freedom out of misery at The Irish Village, alone, after a very hard year, 2006


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