STUDIO CITY

I can’t tell how to condense my life into 100 words For a piece of paper For someone to hold and have and abandon. Really does a number on your identity. It’s not hard. It just hurts. Because it bursts out of me like hot lava. I find a million dandelions blowing through my head and they are beautiful But when they come at you like one furious wave (a few times a day) They stick in your nose and eyes and ears You explode from the inside out Like a time lapse of a decaying animal. I don’t want to walk around department stores that smell like wax crayons too bright so everybody looks like a cartoon Bleeding colors And breaking the fourth wall and I fucking hate parallel parking the silence of Hollywood is deafening and I will die if I keep eating every meal purchased from the store. I feel like I’m made of plastic I breathe and it doesn’t reach my lungs I eat and I don’t taste I cry and there’s no burn in my nose anymore I’m standing in the middle of a 4-way intersection and a car is coming at me and I have no idea which way to go. Is this how it was supposed to feel?