i sit here wholly undone and haplessly doomed amongst the very threads i spun for myself. i always was, and i suppose i knew my conviction that day i followed them and said nothing despite the screams that never made it past my own ears. because i knew where it would lead. i knew what would happen and that it was all i had ever wanted, discomposure be damned.
and, oh, do i prefer a shot to the head over the ease of cool glass! lest we forget what it is. lest we forget why we do it. lest we forget the weight it carries.
the haze sets in around me, as if it always lived in the home. the remedies, no matter how strong they are, will never dispel nor mask the smell. it's always worse if you refuse to take your sleep as you very well should, it makes the air heavy with the stench of ammonia and rot and i have since learned to adore that and find it comforting rather than suffocating. mother, mother, mother, hold me close to your pus-filled bosom and let me listen to the roll of your tongue over stained teeth, over calloused sores, over raw blisters. it is temporary, just a preliminary reminder that you siphoned lye into your head, a warning, should you heed, to turn back now while you still have the chance.
and if you don't feel that pain with every word, with every movement, with every clench of your jaw? well, then, it’s too late now. because now the body is adjusted. how much time has been stolen from me? i attempted to count on too many fingers and the answer i found spells a lifetime of debt owed. is it mine to pay, or my jailors? my jailor, my jailor! cold, unfeeling, black beady eyes that shift and flit in the skull far too quickly, far too much, so glaringly obvious yet so sly with the toothed grin to lure you into its false sense of warmth and promise for better. that maybe this time can be different. just try again! you’ll get it this time, i promise. just try again! try again! try again!
do you even remember how it played out last time? do you remember how great it was? do you remember how awful it was? do you remember finding god and telling yourself that he’s more worthy of your worship than that which the void had sold to you? do you even know what happened at all? there are twenty truths and i’ve condemned myself to live in the single lie that cannot withstand the weight of the world nor the tests stacked against it. yet here i find myself back again, every single time, despite it! questioning, posturing, convincing, begging. separating that which you see and that which you know and that which you feel and that which you…
until i've lost all sense of where up even is, until i question the veracity of the canary that whispers the true color of the moon to me; or, if she too, has lost herself in that fetid swarm of lies that has grown so terribly comfortable. now tell me: do you seek control, or vie to relinquish it at all costs? or, perhaps we’re the butcher, nary a decision to be made aside from the direction in which your knife shall fall?
and, oh, do i prefer a shot to the head over the ease of cool glass! lest we forget what it is. lest we forget why we do it. lest we forget the weight it carries.
the haze sets in around me, as if it always lived in the home. the remedies, no matter how strong they are, will never dispel nor mask the smell. it's always worse if you refuse to take your sleep as you very well should, it makes the air heavy with the stench of ammonia and rot and i have since learned to adore that and find it comforting rather than suffocating. mother, mother, mother, hold me close to your pus-filled bosom and let me listen to the roll of your tongue over stained teeth, over calloused sores, over raw blisters. it is temporary, just a preliminary reminder that you siphoned lye into your head, a warning, should you heed, to turn back now while you still have the chance.
and if you don't feel that pain with every word, with every movement, with every clench of your jaw? well, then, it’s too late now. because now the body is adjusted. how much time has been stolen from me? i attempted to count on too many fingers and the answer i found spells a lifetime of debt owed. is it mine to pay, or my jailors? my jailor, my jailor! cold, unfeeling, black beady eyes that shift and flit in the skull far too quickly, far too much, so glaringly obvious yet so sly with the toothed grin to lure you into its false sense of warmth and promise for better. that maybe this time can be different. just try again! you’ll get it this time, i promise. just try again! try again! try again!
do you even remember how it played out last time? do you remember how great it was? do you remember how awful it was? do you remember finding god and telling yourself that he’s more worthy of your worship than that which the void had sold to you? do you even know what happened at all? there are twenty truths and i’ve condemned myself to live in the single lie that cannot withstand the weight of the world nor the tests stacked against it. yet here i find myself back again, every single time, despite it! questioning, posturing, convincing, begging. separating that which you see and that which you know and that which you feel and that which you…
until i've lost all sense of where up even is, until i question the veracity of the canary that whispers the true color of the moon to me; or, if she too, has lost herself in that fetid swarm of lies that has grown so terribly comfortable. now tell me: do you seek control, or vie to relinquish it at all costs? or, perhaps we’re the butcher, nary a decision to be made aside from the direction in which your knife shall fall?
