I was lying in bed
The covers ****** me in.
Into a deep black void
Where time's an illusion
There was nothing there
No sounds or visions to be seen
Existence is false,
There is no I or even me.

ugh i do not have the time for this
the will for this
the decency for this
not now
im too tired
of all this *******
this sadness
bleakness
the never-ending existential crisis
dont text me now
i wont answer
i dont want another spiral
into the darkness
well…
maybe i shouldnt call it
“the darkness”
thats cliche and stupid
lets call it
“the creepy basement youve always been secretly afraid of thats inside your head”
or maybe
“the space under your bed that you just cant block or cover up no matter what you do”
yeah
thats much better
way more descriptive than
“the darkness”
but i dont want any more of that tonight
so dont be mad when i dont answer

...sorry
i just
cant do it tonight

I used to be a Glock 40,
my aim impeccable.
I made the decision,
I pulled the trigger,
I hit my target.
Lately, I've been a musket shot;
unpredictable,
and somehow even more dangerous than usual.
I miss the center and wind up somewhere in the corner of the paper.
Dust flies from the shrapnel
where I used to have a single trail of smoke indicating the bullet, crumpled but whole,
placing a hole where I wanted it to,
and one unbroken shell, slightly charred,
dropping near my feet.
But here I am watching people take cover
as my pieces go flying, destroyed by my own chaos,
tearing anything and everything apart in its path.
I used to be deadly but precise.
Now I'm not sure what I am.
I'm certainly causing damage,
but more to myself than anyone else...
I confuse and startle people more than strike fear in them,
and that's insufficient...
I want to be better,
but I keep going off without warning,
and people avoid me to avoid getting hit,
but they're not scared,
they're simply learning,
and I don't know how I feel about that,
maybe I'm not a gun anymore,
maybe I'm the target,
I certainly feel like a piece of paper,
flimsy and vulnerable against the onslaught of lead,
blown to bits and drifting off in the cloud of dust...
maybe I don't want to be a gun anymore.
I certainly don't want to be a target.
Maybe I don't want to be a pistol
or a musket
or a bow or a knife or a clenched fist,
maybe I want to be a person.

what a pity

spent the last few years idling in a thin sense of self;
amid outstretched pores looking to photosynthesize more eccentric disposition
even though i know you know my woes consecrate through the spirit, through the veins
what i have shown you is thicker than blood–better count your blessings

so HA! neglect wont erase the ways ive molded your mind
its a gift, to
ditch reason for compassion
to breathe vanity
to breathe immortal sorrow…

my most absurd suggestion yet, now listen closely:
when the tips of my fingers freeze over, let sleeping mountains lie
do hate, but dont devour it;
holy holy holy holy hold the past like a knife
apologies for my insincerity but you must understand…
****, what is left of me?

trembling and then the blade clutters aloof, to and fro and to
i cower from the vision of my wicked phantom,
skin stretched tight over my bones–yet do what He says, for
He makes ruin a honey-like intoxicant
omega three, anti-this anti-that, acronyms galore,
each a little dose of layers of
Him, unraveling atop my fragility

who are you when you are no one to anyone?
when your relationships cannot defend themselves
when the night closes in and you are not a daughter,
not a sister, not a friend, not a mother, not a lover.

who are you when your achievements sink into the ground
when your trophies and medals and memories of conquer
melt into ash on the floor, swept away by the breeze.

who are you when you have no first name, no last name
when you cannot show a form of identification
no passport, no student ID, no document that can say
look, this is me, this is who i am, this is my identity.

who are you when no one remembers you?
when you are not even a memory of those you once loved
of those you still love; when no one remembers the years or the hours
you spent with them, talked to them, touched them- who are you?

who are you when you are no one to anyone?
not even yourself.
when the world cannot speak for you
when the world cannot remember you
who are you when you have nothing left;
no one left.
who are you,
when you are no one?