i've been having a difficult time deciphering fact from fiction and fiction from dreams i had when i was a child, the percolation of the cells in my chest grow heavy, enormous, even, pushing into my throat these cries for anything but drowning, anything but tornadoes all alone, but awkward kisses and tear-stained celestial sheets of cotton. where is my passion? have they taken it all? was all that blood i've shed a lie? do i want to end up dead? i thought intellectual stimulants and forced photographs in front of that fountain, again, could be enough to elevate my senses back to reality, but i have only learned how to decorate the darkness, to numb the throbbing thoughts, to stuff full the leaking veins of love and lust and lost breaths, enough to get out of bed and into his or his or his because i remember this place from a dream i had as a child and it hurts, i hurt, you hurt, i smile and ask for more