All of this, this cowering in the shadows, this vile beast thing,
it is not working. It is working, it keeps the slime on us,
its fetid and rotting and fungal, but yes that too is life
the constant spiraling eternal gut wrenching pulling pushing waiting praying screaming crying laughing spinning of it all
life or a whirlpool or a black hole
you try to ride it
thinking you have a semblance of control
but it has you
you know it has you by the balls
and you know that every word you whisper to yourself
when the dreams, nay
drag your whining crying baby self up from the depths of yearning you cannot even bear to acknowledge
because if you did
you would unravel and unravel
like boogie oogie
not like piglet in the cutest possible way
but like a stinking hideous mass of creepy crawly.
do you feel it?
As you compulsively revisit the grave every goddamned day
as you pick that scab until it’s just a mass of snot and mucus waiting to be pulled from your insides, hoping, begging for it to go away just as you pull its oily ragged, filthy gnawed gruesomeness back to you like a beloved doll, precious. My precious.
fuck all of this. What a thing this is. This horror you have brought down upon this great treasure.
Go fuck yourself.
love does not exist in this trembling jelly mass of putrid goo.
it is a myth of unicorns and pots of gold.
such a pretty delicate thing.