Its persistence was the product of vengeful fantasies of fighting the abstract concept of injustice against it, regardless of its circumstances, regardless of the state it's in
****** up and dysphoric
but delusions wrapped in nostalgic plastic boxes
dissociation, nostalgia for things that never happened was the other half of its being
but then numbness from the disconnect between it and its own body, spreading to its capacity to feel anything
now to these longing daydreams
there is no longer anything that it wants
in this world or any of the other ones
there is nothing left to feel, be it touch or the old dissociative clutch
nothing to gain from pretending It exists, or writing in the first person,
my humanity is constantly in question
whether it's the cruelty of my fellow human
or these circumstances that have destroyed my self image,
put my young body through years of decay,
and killed my will to live
I tried to find the will to clean my skin, but it was spent on not collapsing
the irony in sacrificing my own health to maintain the means of surviving
I feel parts of my body decaying from years of neglect
the irony in slowly killing the one thing I've never stopped dreaming of loving some day