swirling clouds of exhaustion wrapping themselves around my brain, colored ever so closely to those of funeral shrouds. i inhale fumes & hold them in my ribcage, hoping for cancers to form, praying for a physicality to the sickness in me, for a tumor i can point to: "there!" i would say, "this is where i hurt." but my cells only hold my bad memories as fibrous proteins. they clutch condescending looks & carry them in the illusioned hope they will motivate me forward: to prove them wrong, to rise above the insults, to use the weight they hold to propel myself further. instead, I sink beyond previously charted depths. my toes know the silt of a sandy bottom (rocks so broken apart they aren't even considered pebbles anymore; insignificant alone & incomparable heartaches uncounted or uncountable together). i anchor myself in this remorse, this hurt i can't point to. i yearn for selfish suicides & scoff at salvation.