You don't know how little I eat,
how much I ****,
that I use drugs.
You see me- behaving quite naturally,
doing the things I need to do to prove:
I'm alive, but for how long?
I turn my lips upward to pretend the signals aren't there.
My heart fluctuates and pulsates off beat-
my internal metronome needs repair.
I'm out of breath.
Am I out of life?
Copyright © Morgan Tate