it's an awkward corner
we're turned around in
when things are left bare
glaring ugly
uncomfortable
and plain
I never wanted to enter
their sick contest.
I've worn the same scars,
inherited it all but
buried underneath them
insignificant
I hate asking for help
that I don't
want
there's words and whiskey
and dreams of other realities
other worlds filled with
lovely ghosts
that they want to erase
with pills
I'm afraid of losing
the beauty
along with the
pain.
And I'm not entirely
sure
that they're not
the same
thing.