Heaven surely does exist; people with depression must have known it all too well. Heaven is a place without bodies, therefore without physical needs. Nothing has ever felt emptier than abandoning your own stomach and your own lungs. Heaven is a place without sleep, even without sleepiness. All is pure and cold but there's no skin to feel that anyway. Heaven is a place without ambition, without the need to be on top. Communists must have learned it from them, though all with flesh shall fail. Heaven is a place where dead people live, where tomorrow nor yesterday do not exist, where today is one eternity. All is numb and enough, nothing could ever be better nor worse. Heaven is satisfied. Heaven falls to your brain, but all with flesh shall fail.

running away from reality sounds nice
i have the doors but not the rooms
it all begins in one sentence
i could have just laughed it off
my, my, my dear funny thing
whom are you kidding?
it's just as ****** up as it is
heart, heart, heart, keep it beating

Give me a reason to stay,
When all my poems
Are apparently based on someone else,
Father.

Please, don't come near me.
Leave me with my life,
But only if
I ever had one.

too angry

no one cares
until it gets physical

You want to erase father from your life, but that doesn't matter anymore. You can't change anything whether or not you write poems about father. Everything you do it will stay plain and dull, like the child you were, like the child you still are.

You own your body without even you realizing it. It's okay, though. Now I'm telling you that your ******* are yours, that your tongue is yours, that your lips are yours. Your flesh is yours, my dear. It has nothing to do with father's flesh. Only his DNA and mother's, that's all.

You know, your skin hasn't changed much. It's still pure and innocent, just like the finest fabric, just like an angel's. And you know, it's okay to remember your scars, it's still there to remind you something better than the tiny pop of blood vessels. Scars remind you that healing is a process, and not all red will stay red forever.

When it hurts i stop for a bit. two bits. or three until it's pretty okay, at least until the peristaltis calms down a little so i can continue stuffing my mouth with garbage. they say mouth is hungrier than stomach, but i don't even know when my stomach is empty or full or numb or is it just because she's no longer here? has she left my body without me knowing? is it why my chest keeps hurting instead of this round belly?

When it hurts i think that's when it's okay to cry. but everytime i cry it stops because nothing in this world is free anymore, everything has a price and i keep feeling confused for what i have to choose. if i got to choose you know what i would, even though i don't, even though it's so last year, you know, last year i finally determined my choice but deep down i was still confused, and now i am too afraid to go even once more to the depth. if i got to choose, first i'd like to choose an answer to do i really have rights over my own body?

No. no, i don't. for my entire life i've been choosing no as the answer. and pleasant surprise for you, that's what's keeping me alive.