by vangohs

golden in the glass,
bottom of the barrel.
here's a little something for the nerves, a little more for the gnashing dogs in my chest
and bats in my brain. i think i'm killing myself, i think something's trying to kill me: i always feel hunted though there is nothing behind me. so it aches without it. it
burns on the way down. but it burns like
a bullet through the heart of every little thing
ive ever been afraid of.