That I **** up at too many things I try to help,
that I make problems worse than they already are,
I procrastinate on work,
just to spend my evening crying and *******,
When I can do things, it's of mediocre quality
I can only handle things "barely enough".
Dear anyone that tolerates me,
I'm sorry.

My roadkilled cat friend occassionally comes back to me in my sleep complaining about being sick after ingesting gasoline from the guts of the car that beheaded him. You ain't seen **** until you've waded through a marsh of blood in escape of the suburb that just blew up 11 miles away from the woods THEY kidnapped you in, New Orleans Jazz songs on repeat during the storm drain drug deal. Don't forget throwing up all over that expensive platter of rotting meat, while getting bent over and ****** in both your holes by some tall intersex sociopath. Maybe I shouldn't have let those harpies follow me through the maze, all the way home. I'm a waste of human flesh.

We all know the cracks between them are temporary, from downing a handful of happy-candy and flowers with a swig of chamomile tea, how only closing their eyes softly and the paralyzation of their body, pulling them and their body down the rings of Saturn can aliviate the scent of their own fear fighting WW2 in their veins, and the sound of humming from the television with a shattered screen... or what we call the voices of people in a large, congested crowd.

His face drained with charcoal honey and his bones withered to dust and ash.
Flowing into the lightless black pit of her ruptured lungs
The last of her filling up with swamp water, the angry bees humming in her head.
They've come to tow the bodies,
Toss skipping stones into the emptiness beneath them.
They pulled their hoods off. The raging sand storms greeted their faces as the cloth fell behind their greasy hairs.
They waited.

a familiar melancholy slowly fills my lungs, puncturing each lonesome rib until it permeates my entire physical being. a disease embedded into my DNA, flowing through my veins where the blood reaches my brain through a crooked spine and wellness becomes obsolete

Flashes of happiness
are birthed out of clashing glitches,
sickening and imagined.
Scatter ashes to bitter winds
in remembrance of anything,
but the tragic stabs skin
and we forget to love the many dreams that were fused together beautifully.

I refuse this to be another funeral speech. Its a mutiny, a coup.
I'm not dead, still dripping truth from my chest.
I love you.

I'm here to sit and burn the flowers to inhale their haze and pretend that my head never falls off with every word I try to speak, loud and verbal. Loud and verbal. In the crowds, in the crying ******. The astral plane fades, the food is digested, and the music turns static. Coping involves denying all and reminding thyself it'll all be over soon. Maybe just for me, maybe, if we're lucky, for them. Maybe just for me.