there are always so many questions.
there are so many answers, but they never line up.

your atmosphere is humid, sticky.
repugnant.

in the belly of the forest is where you roam, sometimes i hear you calling for me.
calling for me to come back.

you tell me you're dying, but you always were.

"help me. i need you."

an ego to feed, a mental disorder to ignore.
a natural born leader, an attention seeker.

you relished when we called you god, you bathed in the fact that we followed your orders.

and i hate admitting that i believed you for so long.
i hate admitting that i trusted you.

you're nothing but the mud you lie in.

sticky.

repugnant.

the silence becomes the loudest in the middle of the night when safety is no longer an option.

it becomes the enemy when you're trying to sleep, push everything away to get some peace.

it's the thing that turns you from blue to red in the blink of an eye.

turning you into a whole new mechanism.

an animated, drooling, beast of rage.



you can try to claw your way out, but there's always something in the way of getting rid of the revolting, wet, anger that boils in the cavity of your sternum.

there's always that tired morning candlelight of sadness
that washes over my existence and reminds me to stay still.

because if i were to move, what's left of my rib cage
would collapse.
the empty pit of my torso would be nothing but bones and regret.

but this is nothing new.
but sometimes i crave this collapse because maybe the cave
of my body wouldn't be so empty.