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?