Spinning mad futile psychoses delusional disorder persecutory follow me follow me follow me

Crucify crucify crucify

The lions are at the gates

The LIONS are at the GATES

Please — please, PANIC

They asked for volunteers and you swore

You SWORE

And here you are exposing the secret belying the deepest chasms of affinity for nothing be nothing be nothing be nothing

Thirty pieces of silver is too much

The LIONS are AT the GATES

You SWORE

They told you it would ****

They told you what it felt like to be dissected on a molecular level — to plummet headlong through a blackhole out from the context of what has been and into the being of all that will ever

YOU SWORE

And here we are — here I am alone

And the LIONS are AT THE GATES

And we’ve lost another solider to cafeteria food and freshly waxed vinyl flooring and the smell of unscented soap and non-alcoholic hand sanitizers and the taste of Bob Barker toothpaste that fills your mouth as you scrape your maw with ironlike hard plastic bristles and the sound of a door propping open as you shower to make sure you’re not hanging from the curtain and the taste you get on the back of your tongue when you feel the air that is so stale from locked windows and doors it makes you feel nauseous thinking about it and the girl in the corner of the room who colors and you know that she swore too you know that she swore too you know that she swore too because you were there

And I am left

HERE
ALONE
EVENTHOUGHYOUSWORE
EVENTHOUGHTHEYTOLDYOUITWOULDS­UCK
EVENTHOUGH
THE LIONS
ARE AT
THE GATE

I should have known.
They told me it would **** when they asked for volunteers.