i am many things. in some ways i am human.
in many i am not.
little red riding hood. i ping baskets of goods but to no one but myself. the path is worn and only a meter long. i walk it every eon.
the ocean is stretched out before me, and sometimes i wonder if i could walk on top of it. not as jesus, but simply a human whose weight does not peak the surface tension of the beautiful expanse of blue. the terrifying depths.
rotting, a revenant. i have died many times before, i continue to die, and it is to my belief i will always be dying. maggots make their way into my flesh, sometimes, but not always. it depends on the body i am inhabiting. the one that fools see is not mine.
i inherit grief. intergenerational trauma winds through my soul.
most of me is organic, but when it is not, sometimes it is my pain that speaks in binary. sometimes it is a limb, or two, or three, that have metal chassis.
i am a being that god hates. but god hates many beings, many creatures. in this way, i am not special.
i will be the one to strike him down whilst he sits in his lavish marble throne, however. i see the light coming from his eyes and i am blinded when the hilt of my blade reaches his sternum
i am me, and "me" is always changing. tell him/her/them/it that [i] am restless.
the one constant is discontent. the one constant of wanderlust and want.
a black hole resides in my chest. open it up, pull my ribs out with a snap. you will find a nothingness.
stagnant change.
speak not for you are diseased. something coats the inside of your mouth with an ichor. it is disgusting.
hold a funeral for the you who died yesterday.
tantalus sits at the edge of the water. it continues to receed. the panches sway and they flinch and they fear. tantalus made his son a meal and tantalus was punished. he made his son into a meal.
i am looking at papers, at words, at text. i read but i do not understand. i see but i do not. i hear but i do not listen. the words drip down between my fingers they slip through like sand. do you understand my plight? i am sure.
my skin itches because there are things lurking beneath.
do you remember the little well in the woods? do you remember the- the- do you remember it? remember the forest and the castle overgrown with flowers. the gardens sleep on top of bodies.
remember the little grave, marked only by []. please remember it.
that is where my body lies.
i cannot find it but one day i will. when i impale myself with one of my ribs, so small, the rib of a child, it is when the finality of death will ring true in my ears. my body will obey the ebb and flow of mortality.
you can smell the rot if you come close enough. they are writhing. in agony? pleasure? ask the little mouths that rip into my flesh.
things are so slow. so blurry. cotton. a layer of static.
i chew on my finger. there are callouses on the side of my index. underneath my right rib, it aches. something is aching, something is hurting.
every once in a while, these days, when i am looking at something, and i think, my vision blurs. unfocuses. this is normal. but it has been happening far, far more recently. i sit there and then suddenly i am still and watching from behind the screen.
i allow myself brief respite in the sensation of drowning.
ruprturing. it will rupture, and burst through the skin. and it will scream, for that is the only form of speech it knows. its screams are its language, and that is what flows through its blood, because it is all that it has ever eaten.
slow like molasses but the crawl is fast in comparison to the march of time. time goes on and the world keeps spinning. kind of fucked up.
do not tell me what i "need" to do. i do not "need" to do anything. i do not need. it is what you believe i think i need. thus, it is what you need. it is what you need me to need. but i do not need it.
if someone were to eat my i think my meat would be watery and, for the most part, tasteless. i taste like water.
i love you but i cannot say it. thorns spike the inside of my esophagus.
flood the body, mind, and soul with a sea of thorns and violence. it rips and tears at the lining until there is nothing left. i must thank you for your doings. i thank you.
my heart threatens to burst out of my chest, they say.
but they do not feel it, the way that my own simply. that.
i shake my fist at the sky - why do you not weep for me? cry and shriek and pierce the clouds.
hyperventilation.
i was found in a wall ten years ago.
what if i put myself into a microwave, like how people used to stick their heads into gas ovens? i think that would be neat. i'm small enough to fit inside of it. would i spin around?
microwave: mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
how badly will my flesh react to the radiation. will i create sparks, not unlike a metal spoon or fork or knife? i wonder. i am wondering. applaud it. anti-refrigerator.
it is 10:05 PM and my brain is fried, not unlike a raisin. not unlike the bodies i can see. time is a flat circle. cake is a flat circle. if you try hard enough. if you squish it like a little grape between your fingers. disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. please stop. you're hurting me. i'm hurt. i'm bleeding and i'm stuffed between the wall and the bed and i can see the flashlights going passing by. i was never bleeding then but i am now. i will bleed everywhere. all over your papers. i will die in the homes of people i hate to spite them, and they will be forced to clean out the stains of my blood.
become so abstract that not even the most skilled of psychologists can pick apart your brain.
i will be pleased when a monster as drained dry as me will be able to discover what is going on in my head. please come pick me apart, doctor. please come pick me apart. a vivisection of me laid out on the table.
Your guilty conscience is something I wish to admire.
from above from above where you canot see me because the lights coming down on you are all too bright
i peer down into your skull and i watch your demons dance and gnaw at each others flesh, growing stronger despite their wounds that they should be nursing in their caves
i should be asleep. please put me to sleep. i grow tired, weary, of the plane my body resides in, the body that my soul is tethered to. cut the strings and set me free. only you can do it.
get down on your knees and pray for me. i come from a place of begging and yet i have come to command you. i have no right to but i will do so regardless. pray for my freedom. it will get you nothing, you will receive nothing. only i will be set ablaze by your wonderful prayer, and even so, even so, i will never find truth and peace.
the moon will set soon. i kiss you goodnight.
i will go and the sounds of police sirens and dogs barking will follow. no one knows except me, and now, you.
nothing makes sense. will it ever? has it ever?
it is difficult to resist it, the pull of the ocean where outstretched arms await.
flood the streets with your pride.
i've been blue-screening since my death (birth). have i ever missed anything, truly, outside of my glorified memories of childhood? take off from the branch by your nest and never fly back again, little bird, little bird.
something taps inside of the walls, an eternity of "i love you"'s, a cacophany of screaming and please. let me out.
consume with your mind the words that float off the pages, dripping down onto the floor, slipping through the cracks, metal grinding against metal and creating sparks and that terrible, horrible sound that makes
your jaw clench as you shut your eyes.
children swing from the branches from little strings, voices strangled from their throats. the thing that has strung them up crawls in and out of their chests day to day, sifting to reap its rewards.
today i had a good day.
help please help.
i sit in the waters shallow and clear and i cannot tell if the ground is eiter clean marble or dirt and i sit in a forest. it's the kind of clean that comes with nature.
i speak to my mind and it does not speak back.
thrumming in the back of my mind, but right behind my forehead, right underneath my skull. it will rip out, soon, not unlike a chick hatching from its egg. god knows what will be borne from myself.
you speak of birthdays like a curse, starlight. what happened to you?
i'm sorry that i let you die. i could have stoked the fires, and yet i stood, still stand, fire iron in hand and a pile of ashes in front of me.
you would have run out of fuel either way.
bare your teeth at me in your next life, in our next lives, and maybe you will find the reason you exist.
have you ever heard of the one who loved so deeply that he devoured his lover? a tragedy from beginning to end, and yet there was nothing beautiful or poetic about it.
once he devoured her, here was his thought process.
the energy, the calories from her flesh, the nutrients, would go into his body. the important parts would stay whilst everything else left (though, in his personal opinion, everything was important). that energy would go to cell production and his physical actions. and sure, cell decay existed, and at some point you're cellularly nothing like the you from ages ago, but the actions you take stay in your life forever. and his lover had helped with that, given him that energy that he used to influence the path of his life, the way the river flowed.
he was a disgusting, disgusting man. he ground up her bones and sprinkled them around the house as if they were some kind of purifying salt. or perhaps he left her bones whole, and buried them in the backyard one raniy, dark night.
dear, i can't get the sound of chicken bones snapping out of my head. would rotted fingers sound the same if you snapped them off the joints, off the knuckles?
his daughter ran away from home, and i found that somewhat funny, as there i was, a runaway, in his house at sixteen. i wonder what he thought, what he thought of being on the opposite end. disgusting fucking freak. no wonder she ran away.
it's comical how things play out. everything is all so funny.
security guard number 562. what is your explanation for your treason?
treat this matter as if it were life or death.
but it is!
you do not treat it like so. you are lackadaisical. you are sad. pathetic.
i-
do not speak. you have run out of time. the guillotine waits.
hello?
are you there
please tell me you're there
i don't know how much more of this silence i can take