The nausea’s back. The Hate’s come home. The ravens all return to roost, full to the point of dullness. No croaks. Just that one, last scream, slowly rushing and building and returning to my synapses and frying the last undercooked bits.
You say that life is good and beautiful, that I should be thankful just for being. I disagree. My life is an interminably miserable cyclic collage of blurred and unsure dimensions, stinging defeats, and bitter rancor; punctuated by rare moments of elation and catharsis, terror and rage. I hate it, I love it, it’s hideously gorgeous like the sight of decay.
But don’t you dare tell me I should be thankful- the good I find in this hell is of our own design, not the architect’s; it flows from the uniqueness of perspective.
Each of us has our own pain, like a unique flower, that grows alone and is like no other. Never tell me the color of my flower- you haven’t seen it any more than I’ve seen yours.
A fucking forest fire in my lungs, a bladed flower in my chest, a screaming ache in my bones. I’m suffused by smoke, help upright by bits of ash and whiskey concrete, stimulants and degradation. I’m filth, baby- and we don’t ever change.
It’s a desert day- scorching my corneas, cracking my dermis, baking the brain to a well served crisp. Sweat and slave. SWEAT AND RUN!
Too often to I simper to the soggy minds of the unconsciously malicious. They clutch at me, words and meanings, lives and loves and souls always changing, based on their momentary need. Bite the fucking bullet, you sterile waste- get real or get the fuck gone.
You look at me, thinking all the dark thoughts I’ll never know, but I’m far away, with a woman whose eyes hold stars and whose tongue splits and curls and spits and whirls and never stays the same. You hold no gold. Neither does she.
I’m a beggar, ma’am. A ragged clump. But I don’t need your fucking charity. (Cool water. That’s all I need, damn it. Cool water. And a dark hole.)
The planes are slipping together and forming geometry that caves in my skull; terrible angles that seem to deride and comfort in a single elegant sweep of matter.
Crippling gutless bastards! Shit-eyed watchmen blindly pacing out their paths. Spitting in my face, spitting in the gutters, taking my legs and handing me splinters. You will be the first to burn.
The asymmetry of my current position has caused another cleft to form, neatly slicing through the brain and severing the tendrils gently cradling my lobes. Division, only division.
Down in the caves we live by the cracks, gnawing and gasping at the pitiful holes that bring us water, air, light. They are our gospel, and we cut throats or speak sweetly to slip up closer to their radiance. But you can only get so close- you can never break free into the clear cold air or morning lest the whole mass of the dwellers in the depths come pouring out like a foul cascade, drowning the fey guarding the crevice, only to be pushed back and have the slits to humanity finally sealed forever. It’s not a pleasant thought; so we stay in hell.
Like a vast cloud of sub-atomic locusts, I will devour your joy and leave you with smoked bits and bitter ends.