I’m made of really bad poetry
And lies that shoot out of nowhere
Feeling like a random bout of loose motions
Tearing my gut apart as it unleashes.
I’m made of multiple bathroom visits
And lack of pornography in my life
Except the one that i keep stacked
On the inside of my mind.
I’m made of detached humour
And silence sucking the potential
Out of all my possible friendships
And unsaid words that have quit on me
Despite knowing me better.
I’m made of fickle love stories
That i dig out of thin air on
Incredibly moist days so nobody
Can find out the difference between
My reality and theirs.
I’m made of stories i refuse to acknowledge
Erasing them like an incorrect spelling –
Something my mother always told me to double check
Because i was going to be a product of
My own making
A realisation that came too late.