Dreams are like actions; They can’t be undone. But can you be held responsible? 

Am I really this ill?

Am I really this ill?

God someone rub my back, rub my feet! Why do I put my body through such hell? I am impressed daily by all of us. I’m just struggling to keep up. 

This is an automatic-method piece that I wrote on amphetamines in my first semester of college (2010). It’s pretty stupid.

i like things that melt. when objects the lose their form. i’d like to deny my own form. i’m in college right now patiently waiting to be educated in the matter. to study all the vessels, but particularly the version i dwell in, myself.  know every crevice of it, every instinct and law that binds me. binds me like they did in the ghostly days. i will never be them. oh please tell me, promise me. in the elusive corner of my mind, if fate ever makes the wicked knick. the leak to send it all flowing forever. if fate ever lets it slip away, let it slip away somewhere soft and gentle. & in the rare and foolish laying of hands that i may be wanted by someone past my splitting point, will the threads of that alcove fray melodically and send me down a chute of malleable fibers. forgiving fibers. something of velvet. i’m told that’s what they usually are. methodically.  gentle as the  downy trap. subtle as his ashen-sage. have you ever seen a corner split? it sounds very fullfilling. i’d like to portray it, but it probably won’t be good enough for the scalemaster in here. i have a dear friend who hates angles. letter M is evil, red, and masculine. it tastes just like wine in the mouth. if you chew on it, bitter and intoxicating. stop yes more no more this can’t be good for me i don’t give a fuck i’m young. drunken women have more to give, a whole lot less to offer, wouldn’t you say so? does this means we’re playing skip? the drunken me kisses semantics goodbye. she smiles a lot. she’s not afraid to twirl in circles lonely or circles accompanied. a hand cupped in a hand. oh it is a sweet goodbye. liver by the way. shape=function and why i must escape. the function of the human liver is filtration, production of amino acids to smush and separate lipids, secrete waste products, maintain equilibrium. i’d love to sit in my liver when the waterfall of liquid fire rains down. toxic. like hex. but crystal fucking clear. clean my body of all its defenses. a baptism in ethonal. i always had a sick obsession with being under the pounce. lord knows one day i will belong to sea. drench the pores. bottlesip. well, a waterfall would be nice, but aren’t we talking something of smog in a slimy sac? this is not an esophagus. we’ve already covered the verve pipe and the wind pipe. i’m talking about back-stroking in a cloud in my belly while everything is being placed into its proper category. everything is being judged. and i am drunk weaving in and out of a cloud awaiting my turn. sounds a lot like heaven to me. i wonder how my own body would judge me. oh no, don’t even. get ready for the sly escape; oh yes, where was i? murky air forcing itself into absorbtion, hairs running away to leave more holes screaming more baby, please more. growing tongues. what a sight. would you believe me if i told you that i have witnessed this before? a million plastic beeds cooked together in some poor, childish depiction of botany. [it was on the box, okay? they always counseled to color in the lines or no one will think you’re good. i pull the card… i’m a product of my environment] but a million plastic beads cooked together, they are still a million plastic beads, each working alone with their own motives, each a millionth of the whole of beads. & for the first time in my life, i wanted to spill a million plastic beads on the floor. but as i did not know how, i touched it to my face instead. this is me learning the true power of something that doesn’t breath. is it breathing? think again. always think again, and again, and again.  don’t think at all. it doesn’t matter at this point. now this oddity grabs my face in the most intimate way. this is an odd monster. something i crafted somewhere on some platform, reaching up to some island, in the folly of my youth. it grabs my face. it grabs me first as a whole, as a single hand, and the many pieces that make up a hand working in unicen. holding on to each other to hold on to me. i don’t deserve the sort of thing, from any population, breathing or not.  but i saw it on a book once. something about broken beyond repair? crushing perfect dew drops with every clumsy step. you’ll never be what is in you heart. oh, it hurts. so they’re grabbing me together. caressing my face. then they each spout little mouths. each roll their little lips on my cheeks.  the difference between salaciousness and intimacy, i’m the last one to ask. you love someone, you let them violate you. you don’t love someone, you deserve it anyway. that’s what i was taught. little mouths. little kisses. millions upon millions and i am mush at this point. just when you accept that everything in this room is bigger than you, though it came from inside of you… just when you swallow that painfully inflating possibility and realize you need a way out of this body. i need a fucking way out. my soul is a shape-shifter, my soul is infinite. there is no room in here, it wants out. god, this form hurts. once you realize there’s not enough room in here for you, and definitely not enough room in here for the split of us… the millions of little oddities reach out twice their number in hands and they hold you and whisper litanies and lulls in the sweetest little voices. a million beads are touching you with billions of little hands and kissing you with their many little mouths, all holding you in unicen as what seems like a monsterhand of gold and pomegranate. and this is just you comforting yourself. oh, you poor, flimsy little thing. they were never gentle with you, so after 16 years of letting the world scrape and rampage all over you. years and years of letting people in and knowing they’ll never leave. knowing there’s not enough room. knowing they only want to dirty you up a little more and then forget you.  after a childhood made up of these mechanical things. you have resorted to solacing yourself by means of a plastic flower. here you are, lying half-way on a silky clam. it’s not even a clam, it’s a bed. dressing your wounds with a magenta hand on the end of a wand. no, it’s not a hand, it’s plastic. and they are not voices, they are your thoughts. this is the ___ that lives inside of you. this petting that you feel is not the grace of some external thing. it is you, risen out of your skin into the room you’re lying in, falling down on you. you are in your own hands now. cradling yourself. this is the sweet defeat of relief. everything will be alright. relax, feel good. “you’ll never be them, i promise.”  you understand how much this means. but no one else will ever look close enough to understand. oh, they’ll stick their hand inside of you, but they won’t have the decency to face it, to play the game of eyes. don’t count on it.  have you learned nothing? you stupid little girl. yes, you. the one with a taste for being inflicted upon. you just can’t get over the horrible things. you chew and swallow and never let go. like the letter M. i do love M. the way it sits on my tongue. the way it steers my pen. it’s bad for me. it teaches me a lesson. it makes me guilty, so i love it. my letters are always on the edge of something. there is no room to be comfortable. no room to be relaxed. there must be precision and perfection and grace. the glutton uses the whole floor for his antics, while the glutton for punishment cannot muster up the gall to ask if he may have it. oh no, he only allows himself to ride the desire to deny all other desires. he never falters in his presence. he sucks it in, he walks on his toes. these are my letters, the only ones my hands can bare to scribe. nearly skeletal in structure, these are the characters that reflect my soul. the uneasiness. the starvation. they’re putting on an act. they seem sharp, as if despite their lack of dimension would prick your finger if you ever got too close. tried to look inside. look inside and see the softness and the shame. my letters are trying to escape each other. float to the sky, sink into the ground. i can’t decide which way to go. my letters balance on stilts. they’re waiting to be disturbed. begging to be toppled over and spilt. like glasses of water. there’s not enough room in this form. it’s uncomfortable in here. 8oz… what a fallacy. it’s endless in here in a way that cannot be measured. how good it would feel to shatter. for my soul to splash and drape over the floor. fluidity. how beautiful that would be. they were right. there are thousands of things fuming inside of me. it’s a fucking sandstorm in here. just currents wrestling each other. i’ve been trying to find a way to get out for years. there just aren’t enough words to do so. and they hurt force out. i am still and quiet on the outside. what i would give to blend into the background. to become my surroundings. if i could melt onto the wall. dissolve into anything and everything. what other powers would i need? like vertigo. man sees his weakness, he falls into it. for some unnanounced reason he is lured. by the innocence of his softness.  but we are dirty blankets. man is made of silken things wrapped in a callous hyde. beneath this thick, ugly blanket and the muscle and the sinew, you are god’s pillows. your blood is nectar. you are sweetness, in every way. and below that you are too much. more than your body is fit to carry.  so i’ve been trying to get out for a while now. i poke, and prod, and cut myself open. hoping to find the weak spot that will send my soul flowing out of me. deflate all of the excess me. but my soul i weak and tired. the blood always gets there first. i wish the sun would swallow me. then i’d never have to leave this body. 

(Source: Spotify)

Nobody likes the things that I write. 
I suppose the only point is to have people read them - that’s the only way they work. 
But what comfort it would be to know that someone understands. I showed one to a friend the other day. How could you not understand? You were there. It happened all around you. Did I imagine it all? 

Soon I will realize that the crouching figure with his pinched nerves dug this vast hole in the belly of my chest and hollowed me out down to the very linings of pink upholstered walls only to make me a vessel for an ocean of tears.  So many emotions sluice through faster than I can pin them to a card and examine their anatomy. 
He labored so hard.

One day those plush walls, sagging under the weight of so much fluid will begin to mildew and give way to a flood that I can only hope collects in the pedal webbings of reptilian demons and wipes the angels from their downy wings. 


We broke the bed that first year
And drowned ourselves in apple pie
I saw you pull a ghost through that small glass tube
in Ronnie Van Zant’s house
"God will get you for that"
But I was looking for trouble 
That’s the only way I’ve ever gotten any where 

Proof that I still existed at this point. I won’t sleep tonight. I may begin to question.

I guess I’m just going to look at you and say “Who are you? I don’t even know you.”  I’ll say it to every single one of you. 

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