"But you're pretty"--
As
If
I
Only
Exist
To
Be
Aesthetically
Pleasing
To
You--
I am pretty,
So why am I empty?

The only thing I will say about absolute-lies is that you must be absolutely willing to give up what you believe absolutely.

All the words in my head bubble to the surface,
thick black goop, a mess of words of no real use,
they just hover, linger and ooze.
Cold night, fist fight, darker shades of blue,
Closed doors, corridors, I don't live here anymore.
A house of stone and words of glass we throw to waste our time,
Monday news, funeral shoes, let's do another line.
She won't come back, heart attack at the age of forty-nine,
Cross-dressers, gloomy weather, valentine be mine.
Closed doors, corridors, I think I've lost my mind.
Closed doors, corridors, I don't live here anymore.

I look down the neck of a bottle into the empty belly;
My head whispers, stirring my conscious, "I will only **** you",
These are words of comfort.
Guns **** humans.
Hatred kills humans.
Greed kills humans.
Corrupt governments and politicians **** humans.
Consuming alcohol kills me.
I stagger to my dimly lit refrigerator,
I retrieve another bottle of poison and think;
"worst case scenario: this will only **** me"

I remember the stillness of that night;
and the silence we felt because nature doesn’t really count as sound.
I remember the cat-tails we’d dip in kerosene
and watch the glean of the light that rode the coat tails of summer into fall.
I hear a clock deep inside me that counts the seasons I’ve watched; tic tock tic tock
Someday this is going to stop.
It threatens to stop.

I stare at the LED screen, it's been a few hours.
I can start to feel that hum of the light and vibrations of thoughts behind my eyes, telltale signs of not blinking for too long.

I sit slouched on my bed, bent over my laptop immersed in another world-- one of ideas and electrical signals.

50 year old me will look back on these days, I'll probably regret my poor posture, poor diet and bulimic tendencies.

I am a product of my generation, addicted to any escape mechanism to which I can cling, God knows there's tons of viable outlets.

I can talk to strangers online and pretend I'm important. I can play games like living another life, I can do drugs, have lots of *** and immerse myself in the complications of relationships.  I can develop an eating disorder and immerse myself in the depths of that nightmare; anything to avoid the even bigger nightmare which is life, which is truth.

I choose not to wake up.
world of war craft-- not wars and bombings in far away countries.
Strangers online--not my ****** up family problems.
Celebrity Instagram-- not politicians and corruption.
Selfies-- not self worth.
I choose not to wake up.

This was the fourth time I'd heard the crack of death;
In my experience, when someone dies you can hear this pop or crack sound.
This was the fourth time I heard the pop of death, life escaping from a body.
But this time it was different because that crack came from inside me;
It was the snap that severed me from the universe.

Life is a cycle with a lot of revolving bits and pieces that are always changing in a million different ways, separating and joining. But it’s all a cycle and everything is made of the same stuff with the same energy in life and death.

It covers me in blankets,
and silences me like the morning after a snow storm,
here the world is muted, dampened, softened under its weight.
The noises start again when we dig ourselves out.
She doesn't dig herself out,
she sits at her window and watches the figures below,
she's been buried for so long what's a few more days?

"You're not alone"
Am I supposed to take comfort in that?
I want to be isolated in my suffering.
I do not wish this on another.

I had a nightmare,
But then I woke up to the rain,
Echoing softly off my window pane,
But I woke up in vain, because everything’s the same.

What do you want from me?
With your cities of concrete? Are you complete?
What do you want from me?
Your skyscraper views and your morning news,
What do you want from me?
Your holiday in the countryside, where does happiness reside?  
What do you want from me?

I'm learning about life in a bubble.
I'm learning to use words but not speak.
So when I talk it sounds rehearsed or fake,
Until I don't even know who I am or how I arrived here;
but I look and dress and act like all the figures around me.
Am I part of this?
Is this really who I’ve decided to be?

I create more problems so I have something to solve.
I’m the master of my own destruction and my own purpose.
I’m not sure I know what would happen if I stopped—
Who would we be?

I found truth at the bottom of everything,
I found peace in the war that I’m waging,
I found belief in the lack of,
I found trust without love,
I found you, at the bottom of everything.

I watched a man die today.
It happened at the breakfast table;
he slumped over in his chair and started to convulse.
His lips turned white and I helped him from the chair to the floor.
He gasped for air and I grabbed his hand.
His chart clearly stated "DO NOT RESUSCITATE", so I didn't.
I kept calling his name, as if recognition of his existence would ward off death. It didn't.
Helpless, I sat there on the kitchen floor, with a man I took care of but didn't really know.
It was like trying to preform vitals on a mannequin. No pulse. No respirations.  No blood pressure. No air.
I pronounced his time of death "11:12h",
I told someone they should probably write that down.
I had never seen death before, not even at a funeral.
They made me clean his stiff body and we carried him from the kitchen to his room.
Now I understand the saying "dead weight".
I kept his jaw closed so the undertakers wouldn't have to break it.
They call this "rigor mortis", when the body stiffens.
Then everyone looked to me for guidance "you have an education, right? You know what to do."
They don't teach you this in school.
The undertakers came and hoisted him into the body bag.
Why did they take him like that? Cleanly zipped the black bag of doom from bottom to top.
There, ladies and gentlemen, was the grand finale of ninety-three years of existence.
I wasn't ready for him to leave.
How will he breathe? Wait-- right. Dead people don't breathe.
I wasn't ready for him to be dead.
They should've come later.
How do I move on from this? From something so absolute?
Maybe I should've chosen a different career.

We are not dead,
We are just waiting,
Life is a joke,
Feels like I’m fading,
No way back, no way home,
Home is in the past,
All I do is roam,
Place to place,
Face to face,
No comfort in these crowds,
My head is foggy,
I can’t live here it’s too loud.

There is evidence of gravity here,
it pushed me, against earth and ground and concrete.
I am living,
I am free,
within confines of society.
There is a blank space in my head of deep secrets,
darkest when I think of them;
beautiful.
I ****** him for money.
I'm a *****.
I am temporary.
I do not exist.
I'm wet when he ***** me.
That must mean I like it.
I zone out, I ******* like it. Give it to me. I'm ******* dripping wet.
Use me. Use me. Use me.
I'm psychotic.
I have images in my head, I am divine, I am God, I am empty, so empty.
I will **** myself.
Not because I'm sad, but because everyone who knows me knows I don't belong here.
I make a better memory than friend.

I had a dream I killed you.
Cold blooded blood on my hands.
Heat swells and expands,
The space I held for patience was small to begin with,
And in my dreams it explodes.
I watch everything explode.
The only thing I feel is relief; love was a myth and I’m tired of the grief.

I reject your food,
I reject your greed,
This is a protest.
This is the only thing with which I can make a point.
And when they ask my why I'll ask them "why not"?
I'll ask them why they allow this culture, this society, these warped values and ******* to infect them.
Why are we so apathetic?
How can we stand to be alive?

If a virus kept its host alive it too could live.
But greed is more powerful.
Maybe we’re the same.

There were so many words we could've exchanged so naturally we sat in silence. Our minds loud enough to drown the need for conversation.

There are paintings in my bones,
When I retract myself far enough from reality I can see every sight as a painting, a portrait, waiting to happen.

Life is a cycle with a lot of revolving bits and pieces that are always changing in a million different ways; separating and joining. But it’s all a cycle and everything is made of the same stuff with the same energy in life and death.

What if I don’t have any answers?
What if I don’t ever know anything that’s true?
Does that bug you like it bugs me too?

Why am I so tired? My spirit is so low and dies with the trees and I feel the disease of human kind. Not so kind. Staring into the fate of the blind. We’re all so blind. So blind.so blind.

I bite my tongue until it bleeds, but I feel nothing--
or is nothing the feeling of everything?

I don’t really understand god,
But the god everyone speaks of must be biology and exist somewhere in the cycle of all life—
in birth and death, joy and suffering.
Everything inevitable and unpredictable.