Cosmoline
And steel.
Finely tuned,
Blued and forged.
This rifle works
A perfect machine.
Designed to pierce and ****
It does it job.

One cartridge
7.62x54R.
Loaded,
The bolt clicking firmly
In its place.
I smell this machine;
Gunshot residue.

I feel this weather stock,
Fraying and polished.
It feels soft in my strong grip.
I squeeze this death.

I rest it firmly against my forehead.
My heart pounds
And I breathe deep breaths.
Adrenaline.
Exhale.
I'm gone.

Cathartic dirt,
I lay.
Letting dust and bugs settle
On my skin.

Breathing damp musk,
Breathing particle air,
Skin cooled by old tile.

Embrace this darkness,
Embrace this entropy,
Give love to the chaos.

*I love it.

I want to feel like king again.

And feel loved and safe. I feel so alone and cold. Like I'm sleeping in an unenclosed barn in some tundra and the doors keep flapping open and my sleeping bag has holes and it's been years since anything besides spiders and moss has lived in here.

I feel like all the warm families and all the soft lovers have vanished and left me to my own devices. Like the last man on this cold, dead earth. I want to have purpose again. A reason to wake up and a reason to not throw a bullet through my brain.

I feel like I have asthma, or the air is so frozen it hurts my lungs. I can't breathe and my skin is starting to boil and my hair feels so unkempt and my beard just keep ******* growing no matter how many times I shave it. ******* I want everything to stop, but not freeze, I want the badness to go away and the goodness to come back.

I feel like I'm reverting. I'm devolving into the lesser person I once was, I'm losing what defined me. I want to fade away entirely or come back in full, not stay at 70% opacity and kind of just float here in limbo. I want to know that I'm not wanted, or be told that I am. I don't want to have to guess and play guessing games with life.

Being born is the most cruel gift I've ever been given. I am so very lucky to be born, such low odds of it happening, and at this golden time nonetheless, but GOD do I suffer in this golden gift. I am obliged to live a life, and a full one, but that life is inherently founded in suffering and constant war with attrition and loneliness and disease and age and heartbreak and cancer and hatred and cold. And we fight these things and it makes us happy, but we have to keep fighting and fighting and fighting for that happiness. We can't just rest and be happy because it will all start to crumble. Your money will dry up and your health will decline and you will get cancer and you will succumb to dark mental places and you will lose everyone you love if you stop fighting. So we don't have a choice we have to just KEEP FIGHTING. God, I'm sick of fighting. I'm sick of suffering for the sake of avoiding a worse suffering. I want to just float. Just put the car in cruise control and coast at a healthy spot. But I can't.

Not with my mind. Not with my wallet. Not with my heart.

Life is the cruelest luck.

I've learned to let go
Something about chronic
Spiders
And ants and bees
CRAWLING
All over me,
      It's made me care less.

You can fight all these pests,
And when your mind is frying on DPH
Or LSD or DXM,
You really have no desire to,
You don't have a choice.

You let the flies be flies
And the snakes be snakes.

We are powerless, I have learned.
I'm glad I've gone passive.

Remember that conversation we had about you being there for me,
Always
Willing to drive me to the hospital
Or nurse me when I'm sick?

I could have used you last night.

I dreamt about you again
Your hair, your skin, your safety.

We talked and blocked it all out.
It was nice.

My Fox.

My teeth are red, and white
So crimson is my blood upon them
Like roses upon snow.