psychotherapy

water draining from between my toes and smoke billowing between each breath

like some red-lipped girl in a three-star film, the porcelain holds my bones in place

as your bones rattle my brain.

lung cancers and broken homes aside, some people never learn

and the cycle which has left ashes in my bathroom

and bile in my stomach

is born, without so much as a pat on the back or have a cigar.

"you're better than this," i pout into the camera

but what is it i am better than?

point of references aside, i don't know if i'm actually all that good at all

or the angst just makes for a fine photograph.