Sat on a park bench alone.
I found peace in the upset months ago,
but it was like I knew it would wear off
at some point. Is that point now?
The twins are asking whether heaven
is found in Las Vegas, or in the soul.
I say, in others. Humans are social creatures,
and therefore, creatures of habit. Who are we if
we don't self destruct? It's like
returning home after a school trip.
I always used to cry, even before
I'd stepped off the bus.
There was something wrong with me,
even back then. Age eight.
The smell of my dog
disgusts me, entices me. In moments
like these, I once again remember
memento mori. I don't need her skull,
I just need her. Does heaven really exist?
I would say yes, as a comfort, but
who am I if not uncomfortable?
So, I say, no.
It's frightening, really, but I become more
at peace with that idea the more time falls by.
Now Martha's asking me about a beach.
I don't want to be alone, lonely.
I feel slightly better getting these feelings
out, but that ache will be in my bones
as long as the worms don't get to me.
My dog is eleven, or seventy-seven. It's
thanks to my mother she has survived this long.
I feel ungrateful thinking about such things,
but I need to acknowledge these things.
Memento mori is what makes us human,
as well as the loneliness and the capitalism.
My nails have turned orange, on the ends.
I don't know what... to do. Anymore.
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 12:29 PM UTC
Sat on a park bench alone.
I found peace in the upset months ago,
but it was like I knew it would wear off
at some point. Is that point now?
The twins are asking whether heaven
is found in Las Vegas, or in the soul.
I say, in others. Humans are social creatures,
and therefore, creatures of habit. Who are we if
we don't self destruct? It's like
returning home after a school trip.
I always used to cry, even before
I'd stepped off the bus.
There was something wrong with me,
even back then. Age eight.
The smell of my dog
disgusts me, entices me. In moments
like these, I once again remember
memento mori. I don't need her skull,
I just need her. Does heaven really exist?
I would say yes, as a comfort, but
who am I if not uncomfortable?
So, I say, no.
It's frightening, really, but I become more
at peace with that idea the more time falls by.
Now Martha's asking me about a beach.
I don't want to be alone, lonely.
I feel slightly better getting these feelings
out, but that ache will be in my bones
as long as the worms don't get to me.
My dog is eleven, or seventy-seven. It's
thanks to my mother she has survived this long.
I feel ungrateful thinking about such things,
but I need to acknowledge these things.
Memento mori is what makes us human,
as well as the loneliness and the capitalism.
My nails have turned orange, on the ends.
I don't know what... to do. Anymore.
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