Just another WordPress.com site

Suggestive excuses on how to live plague my morning’s wake, they pen me up in pillows of sleep from the previous night’s drug induction. Then some kind of stranded nomad from a bastard society decides to peer into my head. I call’em, “Sunshine,” and as he yells out, “Useless.” The word begins to paste itself on eyelids’ ceiling. Quaint peripheral sleep gives me the shoulder to turn sour, or I must be crawling back alive. In minutes, the word melts into the folds of a living skull, branding tranquility and making her scream. As if I couldn’t do a good enough job on my own, living life and all. What right way that wrong may take, who’s to say what is there is there at all. Subjective, whether it’s mental instability or a chase for serenity, some decisions just take us to lonely places.

It only takes a few seconds to realize I’m still alive. So I look at the mirror or a reflection of something I used to know, clasp my hands, run my eyes to explain validity but instead I ask myself, “What the fuck do I do with this?” This limbed instrument that once gave my mother purpose, and now I must find my own. Deep-rooted restlessness follows the question creeping around the corner. Left half neglected and bones will peel skin off muscle, until nervous cream-colored breath implodes to the expense of words. I rolled over in bed today but speaking was painful. Trained my tongue to tell not the dream but the thought to tell the voice not to speak, so my hand took over. Vomiting a toxic concentration of ambiguous experience, thought membranes, phrases of junctures linking confusion to breathing and contortions of muscles spelling out twitches. Self-awareness is drinking too much life, and now is sick of awkward thinking. Vomited all of it, so many dirty words.

And maybe the stars haven’t lined up, or maybe it’s that the bed I sleep in belongs to another, maybe because my lint pockets only give this bewildered face more character in its awkward composure, maybe it’s that my clothe are falling apart as I’m filling out a posture; it’s when they’re most comfortable. Scarcity’s my brother, but he loves me too little with frail shoulders to lean on. Sometimes it relates to rain inundating a space, something like watching myself drown in under from the inside out. Drowning but washing detail. It’s usually when it feels good to hurt that there’s nothing else to do. When problems detail life problematic. Only to find myself crept up in the corner of some void, buried in the trenches of the wrinkles on my brain. And when there’s no room to breathe, no room for lungs to gasp or sigh, one would think of death, but the sun still rises and blinds the mess.