I smoked two cigarettes last night quickly and succinctly with all my rage and sadness in them and out of htem.

I slept till noon this morning, tired and alone and cold.

And still I cried in the shower

and in my bedroom

and to my pillow

and to the wall

and to anything that might listen

Im scared of everything. Scared of joy. afraid of sadness, afraid of confrontation, and of death and of taking right turns at red lights

I screw up everything in ym life that is right all of it, over and voer again.

I'm scared of myself and of my own mistakes. . . . and of the mistakes of other people