I’ve bled you, poisonous, from my skin. Dug down into my heart and pulled you up by the roots. I’ve chewed up the thoughts of you and spat them out, in passing, on the ground. I’ve left to ruin and rot the cores that fed unfertile seeds you tried to plant inside me.
Those seeds gave breath to nothing but desires of death.
Failure is a heavy-handed image with particulars in trust and hate. Strong feral words with pitfalls and potholes and routes that dead-end against mis-relayed synapses in our mixed-up brains.
Wish I could quell the qualms coming. Reign in the scattered lightning flashing. Quarrel with the growing, blowing storm. But the watersheds are dry and the windbreaks went down and the trees we felled for our own demise. Papers and lanterns held in trembling hands to the sky. Set in water when we die.
For eternities, we’ll have to beat ourselves against this current and this wall. Hold against the torrent unstoppable. Oh gods, I hope you have a plan. Because I sure as fuck don’t.
Slipping knots from ropes around our throbbing throats. Burned by acid from the inside out. Sickness settles like bumps underneath the skin. Bubbles in between the skull and scalp. Hair raising, trying to accomodate, skin tight for want of space to spread.
You know what I’m talking about.
You pretend not to notice how rough it gets.
You try not to hear how bad it feels.
I speak in stereo, always with a voice that is not wholly my own. Some pastiche, homage, collage to greater smiths before me. I only hope to dust the ground with sweet sounds. I only hope to filter light into your mind. I only hope to make this pain palatable to you through stories.