Dec 2020
I can just simply tell you how tired I am
but it's something that's been done before
over and over
so I will describe it.
arms are loose, hanging down in defeat at my sides, knuckles dragging against the ground, hair unwashed for yet another day because I just can't get myself to stand and walk into the bathroom, much less turn on the shower, much less let myself stand under the droplets.
I'm screaming, eager to be normal, to stop feeling like this, but nothing changes, ever. muscles in my face pull, then I'm smiling, and they smile back, and it falls.
the pain in my chest grows sharp, both in pain and in realization; I'm dying.
I reach for a star, and it stings in return. I drag my hand away, muttering apologies, and cradle the wound against my ribs, swallowing back my words.
walking is hard, sleeping is hard, moving is hard, breathing is hard.
I'm not going to get any better.
I long for that shower, but I'll stay in the mud. I'll roll in it, until the dirt sticks under my nails, painting them mocha. I'll have grass for hair, beetles for eyes, and a worm for a thin smile. I can't wash this away anymore.
I'm but a drumset playing in an empty room, falling out of tune, angrily bashing myself in until I'm nothing at all but unrecognizable pieces, floating away with a whisper.
I take a drag of the world, it corrodes my lungs, and yet I dare not cry out in pain, there's no room for that right now, I have to exhale.
but with the breath comes my guts, pooling out and piling onto the ground, wetly smacking against one another like slabs of meat, wriggling like snakes, hissing as if it were a spark doused in water.
I'm being emptied out, to make room for something else, perhaps the hit will create a new little ecosystem, maybe they'll create serotonin enough to fill me.
I'll rot, and the maggots will dance across my flesh, digging until they find something worthy to feast upon, spreading the flesh with their want, I'll be a part of something that lets creatures live, and then I'll one day become something worth loving, saving, caring for.
but for now, I'm nothing but a sensitive overdramatic piece of complete ****, sitting alone in their room with music no one gives a **** about on repeat, praying to the Gods and Goddesses their girlfriend calls them so they don't **** up their arm again. but there's no ringing, just the drum alone in the white room.
but it's something that's been done before
over and over
so I will describe it.
arms are loose, hanging down in defeat at my sides, knuckles dragging against the ground, hair unwashed for yet another day because I just can't get myself to stand and walk into the bathroom, much less turn on the shower, much less let myself stand under the droplets.
I'm screaming, eager to be normal, to stop feeling like this, but nothing changes, ever. muscles in my face pull, then I'm smiling, and they smile back, and it falls.
the pain in my chest grows sharp, both in pain and in realization; I'm dying.
I reach for a star, and it stings in return. I drag my hand away, muttering apologies, and cradle the wound against my ribs, swallowing back my words.
walking is hard, sleeping is hard, moving is hard, breathing is hard.
I'm not going to get any better.
I long for that shower, but I'll stay in the mud. I'll roll in it, until the dirt sticks under my nails, painting them mocha. I'll have grass for hair, beetles for eyes, and a worm for a thin smile. I can't wash this away anymore.
I'm but a drumset playing in an empty room, falling out of tune, angrily bashing myself in until I'm nothing at all but unrecognizable pieces, floating away with a whisper.
I take a drag of the world, it corrodes my lungs, and yet I dare not cry out in pain, there's no room for that right now, I have to exhale.
but with the breath comes my guts, pooling out and piling onto the ground, wetly smacking against one another like slabs of meat, wriggling like snakes, hissing as if it were a spark doused in water.
I'm being emptied out, to make room for something else, perhaps the hit will create a new little ecosystem, maybe they'll create serotonin enough to fill me.
I'll rot, and the maggots will dance across my flesh, digging until they find something worthy to feast upon, spreading the flesh with their want, I'll be a part of something that lets creatures live, and then I'll one day become something worth loving, saving, caring for.
but for now, I'm nothing but a sensitive overdramatic piece of complete ****, sitting alone in their room with music no one gives a **** about on repeat, praying to the Gods and Goddesses their girlfriend calls them so they don't **** up their arm again. but there's no ringing, just the drum alone in the white room.
