i want to ***** out everything held inside of me, yank the remnant gunpowder from my throat and load a pistol to destroy the ghosts that crawl forth from the cramped black holes of my memory. The sound of your name makes my vision turn crimson and my feet cling to the ceiling. What you did is too much for me to carry, haunting me in ways i do not understand morphing me into creatures i cannot bury.
i never even notice you've seeped into something, until its too late. i surface gasping in the middle of a fit of confusion to realize that your grubby, sticky hands are tainting my every movement waking and sleeping, dancing my legs on puppet strings. Iron-locked hinges control my hips opening, closing, opening, rusted and stuck in a position i refused, a place i did not agree to be folded into. Weighted down by the heaviness of you your mass your gravity bulldozing me into glass shards, and blindly mixing my fragments with mud and dust and ashen debris.
A resin of my innards is caked dry under your ragged fingernails. They snag at the holes in my tights and i feel the unwashable stickiness of me skid against my skin. The room is pitch black but i can see splotched neon demons lurking in the corner behind my back. And the gurgling of the television is harmonizing with my rasping, and my tired anger, in a key i can't decipher, although it sounds minor. What an ominous overtone, dangling over our dizzy heads. Stop trying to scare me, soften me into your arms.
I am the monster in this room, remember?!?! There is almost too much guilt in my sandy mouth to make room for another insistent plea. Stop. STOP. I am not joking. I am not a joke. I am not a target. Or something to crush and **** up your nose.
i'm much too grotesque for any of that. I'm the monster here, remember?