I am used to bad moods.
Acquainted with angry silences.
Well aware of how easy it is to be ignored.
My family doesn’t talk much. Emotions are for the young and inept. Logic and familial love are what hold us together. Being honest doesn’t come easy in those situations.
Logic states that I should stop smoking, stop cutting, stop fucking crying all the time, I don’t need a vice because vices don’t make sense.
I talk about them. Vices. A lot.
Try to make them poetic when they’re really making my insides rot, making my life shorter, second by second. When I am eighty-two I will realize how much of my youth I wasted trying to kill myself. And I will be upset at what I’ve done, but that will be later and I’m trying to convince myself that I will just accept consequences and let go.