all i want
not enough
dig a hole
can't return
to save myself
no exit
from the dirt
it's futile
rinse the stain  
gonna break
see my face
no control
see my eyes
don't exist
see my smile
can't imagine
feel my skin
never happens
to feel alive
never will
to feel something
can't resist
just to rest
no control
fall asleep
no exit
feel something
it's futile
just exist
never happens
just
never will
exist

i've got a curse on my body, stems from a curse in my head, and i'm a curse to society so i'll curse all of them
and i'll form my hand into the shape of a gun, and i'll point to my temple just to give myself directions to the place where I was last fed and i'll crawl back like a stray cat just to be denied again
of another dissociative self-afflicted right of passage
then awake as the bullet fades into and back out of existence, just long enough to effectively exist as a migraine and not the cause of my own destruction,
a feverish kind of reincarnation that leaves residual traces of all of my past sins

area of infection is stretching its tongue-like limbs out, a yellow and fleshy door blocking the hallway
so we all arrive at the same time, on the same night with a handful of solutions, then get tired by the next day
to, on occasion, try the same thing for the next two weeks, until we can do nothing but imagine that time before the cancer door did not exist

cut, cut, cut
two weeks and still i have no nerve, it's what I heard
dig a hole for every word, i kept the thirst when i spit dirt
cause it felt good until it hurt, got crushed and ****** until it whirled into the earth
and all your ***** get seen not heard so take it as a risk of birth

my blueish face with a smile on it, for the first time
and if you cant wait, you can grab my waist, make it last this time

in case you bought it, it's happy, gladly,
just cut me up and then put me down please
ill be here waiting like i always am, ****** up inside and outside again
pushed in till it's not seen but felt, dont tell

girl trapped in reclusive isolation aesthetic
reaching towards the feminine thing
to run right through the nerves of my aching
but i taste blood in the water, and the sudden rage i feel is bigger than the drink

why won't you specify
what the **** is the problem
my lungs feel like they're
almost systematically
being pierced
to the point of losing all ambiguity

flesh and blood
intertwined with lines,
lovely, but not poetic
we found no poetry
in the garden
and no use for allegory
just a form of sophistry
shouldn't be so cowardly
in your garden
sleeping,
smothered in moist air from the mouth of my mother,
with golden hair like hers
gentle and pear shaped
the smell of fruit moldering in a soggy paper bag
a violent departure
or cathartic release
loathing the honey
thirsty for poetry
i want to be
in your garden

at first i thought i wanted to be you
but i think that was me just trying to cope with the fact that
you are the most beautiful person i have ever let my eyes on
and that
i don't exist to occupy some abstract space in my mind where i am a trophy that no one could have, that means nothing to anybody but me
and exists to be pretty
and kept behind glass for no one to see except me
when i come back to dissociative thoughts to say "look what i achieved" but i think i see the truth is that
i look much better, separate, and beside you