This. Stimuli. It depletes me. Turn, turn around. And complete me.
I, lost all control. And this sense of lament is visceral. I bleed, from the outside. Numb death, turning, becoming inside.
I. Just need one thing. A child’s toy, nostalgic and stuffed. A somnambulant hymn. To remove me. Disassociate, please.
Your hand is soft. Placed places that comfort. I miss your scent, that congeals. I wish I didn’t have to feel nothing. Emptiness is so guttural and potent.