somehow these walls look smaller with the pictures taken down,
i havent felt myself in weeks.
i havent felt this way since
my foot-soles kissed 230 on the comeup,
since 120 burned a hole in my nose and made me choke on the pellets.
i miss addiction in the purest way.
i miss your bed but not your mouth,
i miss your hands but only on my hips and nowhere else.

"someone you love can be so damaged!"
the human body is not sacred as we believe it to be. everything is a house for a soul! but flesh is warm and blood flows so we treat it as if it lives. it does not live. love, reason, sorrow live.
flesh is not sacred so much that it is protected, but it is not sinful and it is not a cage. we cremate the body - prepare it, manicure it, embalm it. the cynic says we do these things for the living, but it's not true.
we care about the dead because we can tell they are living somewhere outside themselves.
it's like making the bed, steaming the curtains of a room inhabited by some lover on an indefinite voyage.

blood will creep into the soft, cream cotton seams of my pinafore and it will never ever leave.
will they torture me first?
I don't think so.
does a killer hate or love their victim? is it the same?

i.
will you starve me? hit me? **** me? the answer is no because you sense that I am alive - you sense my warmth, what makes me move. I wonder how a killer feels life. does he feel it at all? what makes an animal deserving of life or not? does it need to speak or sing?
killers maybe are afraid of conscience and the power of the human mind. maybe they **** other deserving creatures because they hate the guilt we give them for wanting to hurt
or for being hateful.
I wonder who made them hate or why some of them cannot feel love anymore. it's romantic to think about saving a killer with love.
but we can't and we shouldn't think about it.

ii.
I wonder why I like to seek out things that disgust me, or if I like it at all. I heard someone say that if you believe you're worthless you'll work hard to make sure everyone else believes it too.

It wails like an infant. the silence completely deafens me, the noise makes my head ache. the Thing crawls down my spine, ever so softly and i shiver from the tenderness. the promiscuity, undisguised. i remember where i am and my eyes focus on your figure. i pinch myself, i cross my eyes, i distort you. i imagine that you are a terrible thing.

the snow leaves us speechless and comatose. you shudder.
i have always been obsessed with the movements of you, i sigh when you twist and you
****. the smell is ******. i
can’t feel my legs? i can’t feel my
can’t feel my
jaw or the
top of my nose or my
spine, i bleed inward, and i   i   i
i am TERRIFIED OF MY OWN BODY.
you swear that this silence is toxic.you
can’t get a word out of me i’ve been choking.im never fine but i believe it

you are collateral damage.

you look down at your hands, they are callused and bleeding in all the places your teeth broke the skin so many times, this is,

is this some small victory? is this war necessary? the sound breaks through the silence but it is still muffled. the bathroom door is closed. there are people on the sink, in the bathtub, you are puking and have no idea who is holding your hair back. you feel fingers shove their way into your throat. you bite down,

your hands are bleeding again. you don't know your limit, you fall in love again, it all just aches in your chest. you were pretending the whole time, oh my god, you were pretending the whole time. you are staring at your hands.

this death is inevitable and the artillery smiles at you with all the love of a new mother like the friendly fire is so friendly and these casualties are so casual. you are fighting a war with yourself. you are fighting a war with your body and you are fighting a war with whoevers *******
fingers
are in your
throat

and the body count is rising. the air teases your lungs.

you’re ******* with me. mom always said your eyes go black when you’re angry and i see it now, too clear, i’m Crying. i’m Terrible, right? like a boil i fester underneath the kitchen table. you can not touch me, you can not touch me, donttrytotouchme cause i haunt this place. i haunt this home and all the other ones i died in; i pull your teeth and make things go bump in the night

so here i am because ghosts cant leave the place they died. my blood is in the other bed ******* in snot. my hands smell like ****. i know your skeletons very well. we dance and bleed together when you walk down the stairs, when you give us that look, we cry when your voice hits the window, my little finger pushes all the bite behind me. we wail in unison.

there is something disgusting stuck in my throat.
the dogs are barking. i gnaw on the joints of my hands to the
beat of their dissonance; this is what got me sick in the first place.
me and my butterfly wings,
my butterfly knife and my
butterfly rash.
winter is always diseased.
i just want to be left alone yet i swell and secede,
i urge and i can't keep ignoring,
this death will be the death of me.
i hate me

its been thousands of years since ive seen your face but i still remember the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you were passionate about. i guess after a while the light went out when you thought about me.

i’m drowning in a sea of green.
it’s waters are murky and deceitful-
i thought i knew how to swim.
i open my eyes to find myself
sitting in a bed of concrete,
no water in sight.
i find myself unfamiliar with dry land,
taken aback by the absence of warmth.
all i know is that i have to get back up,
rebuild what has been washed away.