I wish I had the words to say, my blood soaked brain
it stains the cloth that suffocates, baby's blue face
I wish I had the words to say, my aching state
I ate the taste, neglect my frame
a shapeless pain, no meal today

wring out blood and words and thoughts forever
wring out blood and words and thoughts forever
wring out blood, words, thoughts, forever
wring out blood
words
thoughts
wring out blood
wring out blood
wring out blood
wring out blood
wring out blood
wring out blood

writing poetry is a way to exist, to attempt to emulate the beauty of the me that I'm not yet but the me that's inside of my head, and it's all spontaneous, nothing planned or rehearsed because rarely does anything come from it

listening to music is a way to exist, I reside somewhere in a line I interpreted to refine an alternative image of this body that I refuse to accept

dissociation is a way to exist, cause the loudness of my own ambitions and dreams and goals, or rather delusions, can distract from my own nightmarish self image, but only for a moment

self harm is a way to exist, as I hope that the me that I imagine is stronger than I am and can tolerate far more punishment inflicted by either myself or my fellow human

******* is a way to exist, cause the lust I experience is never more prominent than when there's truly nothing left for me and I've exhausted every other method, and there is nothing to do but give in to the most worthless way to feel a sense of purpose

Emorie is a way to exist, because she's an exquisite reflection of the life that I've always wanted, and what I wish I could see instead of what I get when I look into the mirror and see dead eyes and unfamiliar flesh.

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