sometimes i forget that i exist
i wake up without knowing what time it is
but it's fine because i've forgotten that pain is a thing
that last night i could've cried
because i missed being able to say out loud how i felt for you
but also because i was having the millionth existential crisis of the week.

sometimes i just
i forget that i exist
it's like when you're sleeping but not really dreaming
but you're conscious of the nothingness that has become for just a second,
everything.

and for some reason
i've never talked to a person that understands what that nothing is,

but

sometimes,
i forget that they don't exist where i do
because if i don't exist then there's nothing and that means that
they don't exist

but me,
i forget that i exist.
how can i forget that i am alive?
it's like i can feel my body,
but i can feel the space between my fingers
no matter how tight i hold my hands together.

sometimes
i worry
because i forget that i am here
i forget that i am a living being
i forget that i am skin and bones
and memories
and connections with other people
and i am pain and sorrow and tears and light.

sometimes
i want to forget that i am here
i want to forget that i exist.
sometimes it's easier to imagine
not existing.

but sometimes,
when i forget that i exist-

i've never wanted to exist
but sometimes,

i realize i do.
i am here.
and if i am here
then so are you.

(Zecheriah, xiii.1)

There is a fountain fill'd with blood,
Drawn from Emmanuel's veins;
And sinners, plunged beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains.

The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in his day;
And there have I, as vile as he,
Wash'd all my sins away.

Dear dying Lamb, Thy precious blood
Shall never lose its power,
Till all the ransom'd church of God
Be saved, to sin no more.

E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream
Thy flowing wounds supply,
Redeeming love has been my theme,
And shall be till I die.

Then in a nobler, sweeter song,
I'll sing Thy power to save;
When this poor lisping stammering tongue
Lies silent in the grave.

Lord, I believe Thou hast prepared
(Unworthy though I be)
For me a blood-bought free reward,
A golden harp for me!

'Tis strung and tuned for endless years,
And form'd by power divine,
To sound in God the Father's ears
No other name but Thine.

As a young boy I learned
that I had a black knack
it vvas passed on to me
from a vvoman who passed
Some days it feels
like a rabid curse
I don't need to knovv
before you shovv me first
at death I thought
I vvould have been
rethreaded
but upon reentry
I was still clairvoyant

816

A Death blow is a Life blow to Some
Who till they died, did not alive become—
Who had they lived, had died but when
They died, Vitality begun.

1649

A Cap of Lead across the sky
Was tight and surly drawn
We could not find the mighty Face
The Figure was withdrawn—

A Chill came up as from a shaft
Our noon became a well
A Thunder storm combines the charms
Of Winter and of Hell.