I was probably always dumb.  

When they yanked me out of classes and stuck me in an empty room with puzzles.  

I was dumb then too.  

But people get really fucking proud of the things that make them different.  

Like the doctor who pointed out the birthmark on my back to my parents.  

Now I wonder about the moles there.  

I keep telling myself I’m on the mend.  

And every time I pass someone smoking a cigarette, I fall back into that part of me that is still an addict.  Doesn’t matter what it is – cigarettes, alcohol, marijuana, opioids. Give me something dangerous to play with,  

Give me a way to numb my brain, and edge closer to death.  

Just waiting for you around the bend.  Still fucking dumb.  

When you realize you’re the reason you are the way you are.  

The kind of rebellious half-wit who couldn’t finish school.  And turning away, one by one, people who might have settled for you.  

I was probably always dumb.  Doesn’t matter what you create.  Matters what you make. 


I never wanted to be like them, anyway.  Kids who could get it, laugh it away. I was always the one off by myself, alone.  Grew up alone, and still dumb.  

Deep out there on the periphery, in the hum and murmur of the day-to-day.  

I like to tell myself I am getting better.  

I’m not.  I still dream about people I used to love.  

And I think, maybe I should reach out.  Be a little human and communicate.  

But what kind of poison would I spit out?  What havoc would I wreak? I don’t want to be human.  

I want to be loved again, and in love again, because I’m weak and sick and an addict.  

Because I’m dumb.  Because I always have been.  

Just let it go and accept what comes next.  

What’s the fucking point?  Nothing to kill yourself with.  Just one day after another. Doing the same thing.  Making money. More than you need, more than you can spend.  

Come home and cook a meal.  Drink and fall asleep.  

Nothing.  Nothing. Nothing.  

Meaningless work.  Meaningless words. A life full of the emptiness you buy and sell.  To people who can’t wait to buy emptiness, and hold it over others’ heads.  Brand Name emptiness and Quality emptiness. Emptiness on sale or at a discount.  

Just as long as people buy and sell.  

The world continues to spin.  

Tell me what’s the point?  In hollow days and empty rooms, in the spaces between moments pouring by, it’s me thinking everything to death, and getting nowhere for it.  

Everyone needs a purpose.  

I feel like a dead end.  

I was probably always a dead end.