19 Februarys Poem by Eli MorenoDrew

Please. Anybody. I swallowed these weights and my body feels heavy like when I lost love for a day. I promise I will never lose love again, just, get this weight out from me. It makes getting off the sofa hard and I need to do my chores. Am I the only one that knows that things need to be done around here? Remember how you felt when you read Charlotte’s Web? Remember knowing you were going to die? Do you feel that wave of something, you don’t know what it is so you SCREAM and sob until you sleep for a week? My neck moans in pain holding my hanging head and my eyes throb.

Please. Anybody. I swallowed this wait and my body feels like it’s in limbo like when I lost love for a day. I promise I will never lose love again, just, get me out of this wait. That anxiety children get when their parents leave has to be as tall as the bathroom cabinet where their dad keeps his Crown Royal.

Please. Anybody. I’m addicted to whatever makes me feel good and I’m told that’s bad. I’m addicted to nostalgia even when it leaves my head hanging and neck moaning. I’m addicted to skin and breasts and lips and tongues and the intermingling of all of those. They told me that’s bad. But I can’t help but think of thrusting my words into girls that tell me they love me. I’m addicted to honesty but I find myself breaking that addiction and telling girls I love them and in return they let me thrust my words into them until there’s a mess I’m not too embarrassed to clean up.

Please. Anybody. My guitar is out of tune and I’m beyond frustrated. My melancholy picking and strumming sound flat and white. How do you expect me to change the world with an out-of-tune guitar? How am I supposed to feed myself with an out-of-tune personality and a less-than-average physique? I can’t help but believe that my guitar would do fine without me. I can’t help but feel it’s neck and how it moans when I touch it and strike it’s strings. This minor chord is making a major impact on my depression and the girl sitting on my bed. Her curves are less defined than my guitar’s and so her moans are loud but temporary and transient.

Please. Anybody. I’m spending money I don’t have on drugs I don’t need. They tell me that’s acceptable only if it’s their drugs. They can give you things that won’t make you think. They can give you things that will take the weight and wait out of you. They can give you things that make it hard to get your words up to thrust into girls, and they can give you things that make your words as straight and hard as a totem pole. But godforbid they give you things that make you feel. Godforbid they give you things that make your eyes bleed with sights you’ve only imagined, things that make you eat every bit of chocolate in your house, things that make you sing and love. Godforbid.

Please. Anybody. I’m not alone and the scary part is that you know.