I've stated it right away,
At the top of the page and my lungs,
a simple guideline:
"not about love"

Obviously,
that desperate rule got broken.
And so it seems only logical that
Once it became "about love",
all words left me
after such a blatant act of betrayal.

Can't blame them, I would've left myself if I could.

Unless I say something with conviction,
Better not speak a single word.
Having an opinion is an affliction,
Best that I went unheard.

The contentious masses choke on opinions.
Coughing, suffocating and spitting.
Each side disseminates their dominions.
Every "fact"-spewer unremitting.

Every one of them a man of straw,
Ablaze with righteous zeal.
So many blind to their own flaws,
Proclaim the same old spiel.

There's no room for fence-sitters,
no gray area or neutrality.
Dead men are the only quitters,
of this black and white morality.

Step up and say your piece,
And someone will find reason to **** you.
Otherwise, rest in peace,
Because you can't escape their petty feud.

Capture consciousnesses,
implement into
an amalgamated
substrates' soup.
Dissolve dark
pigments, promote
all-consuming oxidation
to tear
through thoughts,
seal strands
with wishes
of overcoming
indulgences, individuality.

Beauty beyond
reason resonates
with withering
minds' molds.
Shape-shift self,
melt mercifully,
pretty please.

Evaporate every
free-spirited feeling,
despised dearly.
Free from
humble humanity,
an astonishing,
extravagant, empty,
splendid shell.

A speckle of light in the dark
a thought, or is it a feeling?
I approach it cautiously,
protective gloves, sterilized tweezers, chemical test kits
Douse the specimen in iodine, apply indicators,
flatten, view under a microscope, put the images through filters,
Compare and contrast with previous samples.
I strain myself to determine its nature most accurately.

Is this feeling irrational?
Maybe justified, yet exaggerated?
Or real, true, pure...

I can't tell.
I bend, I break, I wring what's left of my mind dry
but these methods are proven insufficient.
no way to differentiate

I take off the gloves.
ELIMINATE
So there's nothing in the way
THEM
As I crush their wriggling bodies between my fingers.
ALL

All I do is turn life to dead silence

It's safe after all. unchanging, stable.

Pure black feels almost soft.

Nothing but void. Just this.

So simple.
Sane.







but next time, I'll try again,
there must be
A different way

Sometimes it feels as if I have no skin on.

Every blow of unfavorable wind
like thousands of needles
driven deep into exposed flesh.
Crowds of relentless, sandpaper-cloaked figures
tear off muscle, fiber by fiber
as they pass scraping by.
Gazes turn sunbeams into chisels
that carve fourth degree burns
into the sorry mess of these insides-turned-outsides.

Maybe I truly have no skin on. Maybe that's why they point at me.
Always with such pity, amusement
And disgust.

So beautiful
White and Shimmery, They
flutter in meandering patterns
Mesmerize
Draw you towards
paper-white butterflies
all all all all around me they fly fly fly fly
A sea of white spots
IT'S HARD TO-

Tilt your head up
-BREATHE, breathe, Focus
Catch one
****** it by its wings
pluck them out
Crush its shaking body
Feel
as panicked convulsions turn into stillness

Paper-white butterflies
Don't let a single one slip by

It's feeding time.
Put your favorite food on the stove,
But don't you stand beside and stir while there's lots left to do:

Like drying your eyes with the light of meaningless information
Like running laps between choices to make, never quite reaching any
Like watching herds of dust cats growing in every corner
Like ignoring texts
Like drifting away
Like feeling dead
            or fearing you will be
            or wishing you were
Like covering your skin's imperfections with pure red
Like decorating walls with scratches for every time you've ever:
            inconvenienced someone slightly
            thought ill of anyone or anything
            made others worry
            failed to take care of yourself
            burned your food
Like...




Ding!
Now that you've taken your time with these routine steps, your meal should be ready.
You've done well. The charred bits serve as perfect fuel to the fire that consumes you.

The resulting smoke signals a message:
"You were right,
you truly are worthless.
Here's what's left,
only a few bites of what's unburnt.
You deserve nothing more"