i am too abstract now for my own good. i feel and hold myself, in place, in my hands and i slip right through like sunlight, like tiny moth scales, like the delusions of a sauntering ghost, like all things unreal and untouchable, like a madwoman, laughing away in her free fall to an unsteady ground.
and all the flowers are cheering in their surreal, psychedelic scarlets, and all the rocks are breaking, and all the words are failing to capture what i truly feel.
am i still despairingly corporeal, like paper napkins and panes of glass? am i still in actual flesh, now that god doesn't exist? am i still as tangible as this last, frantic breath of a letter?
am i still actually here?
bidding my farewell now,
𝐼𝑓 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑢𝑡,
𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 —
𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑠,
𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑐 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠,
𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔
𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙,
𝑤ℎ𝑦 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑠𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑦?
𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑑𝑜 𝐼 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙
when will the world quiet down into a throbbing, feeble ***** that i can so easily crush?
i spend my days sighing away, digging away at each layer of disillusionment. when will i get to the bottom of this? when do i get to see my bones, all bleached out to a lifeless tan? when do i get to poke them around like live coals, desperately reviving a dying fire? when do i get to see myself, in my highest, truest, most foolish form, and have the closure — both underwhelmed and overwhelmed?
i've lived longer than my younger self would've allowed; tell me, did she know me much better? did she live just long enough for me to inherit her despair? have i gone dancing too much with illusive lights, only to get home heavy, burning, and blinded? did she know it all along? did i know it all along?
tell me, was it all for this? tell me, in the name of all my splendid highs and in the drawn-out silence thereafter — is this it?
oh, to self-soothe like a wounded fawn. the hours are unmoving. the lights disorient. the city collapses on top of my head.
this world is too impatient with bewildered hearts like mine.
𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑑𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠. 𝑚𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑’𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛.
i tire myself out. i bite on my heart and spit it out — press my fingers on the dents, the teeth marks, the parts that are supposed to hurt. and i watch as it breaks into a thousand glasses. dreams. futile daylights. i watch, ever so quietly. i watch, unfeeling.