when the throat is dry
it goes all the way to the brain
and when it shrinks it disrupts
the skull and the muscles
so i'd rather have my neck
cut off, my head plucked off

but why do i feel like
my guts will come off too?
probably for the better
if it's physically empty
we don't have to worry what to fill it with
(grapes and white bread
doesn't fill as good)

i should probably sleep
in my sleep chopping my hair off
sorry
if all i think about is sharp objects
i don't know, perhaps
i'm just worried
the scars won't fade

(missing)
even the best memories fade
what is this, birthmark?
i want to get my heart done
please, make it stop

Hair falls out like the
Lady down the haiku stairs
Scattered on the ground

lend me a home,
or just a shoulder to lean on

is more than enough;
those two things
i can't do by myself,

no matter how badly
i try to believe:

for the heart is in my chest,
i am my own home;

for i already have two shoulders,
i won't be needing another.

but my head is too heavy
because of these sour clouds, my neck
might accidentally break.

i Let It Consume me Like i Am Some Rice Porridge, So Easy, So Easy i Slip Into The Throat And i Warm Its Belly, Only To Have All my Nutritions Absorbed, Gone Forever And i Can't Ever Be With Them Anymore And Now i Feel So Cold And Groggy Or Maybe Just Not Wanted As Much As How i've Always Known. One Day i Am In The Toilet But Not For So Long Because After It Finishes i'll Be Flushed Into Nothingness Not Even my **Smell Remains And Toilet Is Now Citrus-y Like Before Again.

light, light, light. it's a whole experience. cut me into two pieces. right left. i'd never been so symmetric. the ground sparkled. dorothy knocking. the house blown. wind whisper leaves laugh. i'd never felt such courage. candles weren't lit in the dark haze was reflecting the light.

moon hanging too low it hit my head. ruby glistened between the branches. hands reaching out for fear, god trembling and dropped the glass. it rained hurt only to remind life to remain. every body is a coffin to the soul, food to the soil. when finally we are one it doesn't happen. the window was open. only small i carefully ran away it doesn't end.

Heaven surely does exist; people with depression must have known it all too well. Heaven is a place without bodies, therefore without physical needs. Nothing has ever felt emptier than abandoning your own stomach and your own lungs. Heaven is a place without sleep, even without sleepiness. All is pure and cold but there's no skin to feel that anyway. Heaven is a place without ambition, without the need to be on top. Communists must have learned it from them, though all with flesh shall fail. Heaven is a place where dead people live, where tomorrow nor yesterday do not exist, where today is one eternity. All is numb and enough, nothing could ever be better nor worse. Heaven is satisfied. Heaven falls to your brain, but all with flesh shall fail.

Home is far away in the future that is for me like the heart-throbbing, very-first gamble and between the most extreme and the exact opposite side. Either way I find it intriguing but at the same time I want to stay at the same time. I, I want to... stay.

I'm not saying where I struggle now is the most beautiful and pleasurable and that's why I don't want to move, although I also am not saying that it is so painfully ugly it may fit me rather perfectly. Uh-oh, none of it matters, actually.

I just shall never leave. I mean, I'm dead from now on. I am preserved nicely in a body that will grow when I swell, that will shrink when it is running out of me. And there will come a time when skin kisses bones, my, my, lovely are my bones!
Oh!


I'm fine like this. I think I'm fine like this.