Real Life Is

Real life is going to work
dope-sick
after fighting with your partner
first thing in the morning
over nothing.

Over something
you can’t remember.

Real life is making
mistakes
the same ones
over and over.

When you throw the bong
against the fridge door
and it breaks
and your cat hides
in her safe spot

as you cry on the couch
it’s only eight am.

Real life is waking up
sweaty and cold
anger pulsing through your tiny body
which does not eat anymore
just feeds on self-pity and
self-loathing and a steady diet
of rage.

After the fight
two hours after the fight
saying I love you
not knowing if you mean it
only knowing this feeling
needs to end.

The toxic misery has turned your blood a dark purple.

At least that’s
what you see
under closed eyes
the blood coming out.

You cry in the bathroom
at work
you think about your cat
you hope she’s okay.

You listen to Hole and you cry
for the ugliness of women,
of you

of the needle
you haven’t used yet
but wonder if you will.

C’est la vie.