mainlining disappointment. maybe if I open a vein the blood will form the words for me? like some macabre divination? I’ve developed an acute repugnance for sobriety, so the blood will be good and thin.
I fucking died this week. yet my legs still carry me to work. you killed me, yet you’re still free to dance about my ruins. you, my mute murderer. the toll of blood has still to be taken, but it feels like a fucking massacre inside. and, reason is the worst casualty by far.
this wasteland is not mine to get lost in, yet it claims me just the same. I am its phantom limb. I am its articulate slave. perhaps I was one child too many for you? well, only the pain can tell. and it tells me nothing but the announcement of itself.
I see my future and it looks like a pool of offal. unclean and a complete fucking waste. I see my future, and it’s a cracked mirror.
cinders make up my synapses, when my thoughts belong to proverbial HER.
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