hemoclysmic - Tumblr blog

[hemoclysmic]

19/10-22

it's a bonsai tree. a bonsai tree is a small unspecific tree, contained by a pot that chokes it from growing too big by the roots, and by pruning shears when it defies those odds. i spend all my time with it pruning it into beautiful shapes, carefully manicured down to look organic. but shears dull, over time, and the tree grows. i look at it from across the room and can't find the strength to cut the contumacious branches over again. over weeks, maybe months, the pot cracks under the persuasion of the roots. they slither across the floor, walls, until i awake immobilised one morning, encased. but i'd gone to bed the night before, with them shawled around my limbs. and the night before that, with them splayed over my bedsheets. and the night before that, with them creeping up my bedpost.

and the roots... i can hardly breathe below them, but when i do they smell of old stagnant earth and vegetal blood. they're rough against my skin, dry. im vertiginous from the veins they choke, lips surely blueing, slipping into a fever mind, wonderlandish. but i don't taste my own medicine. it is wonderful to be held.

what is there to say about loneliness at all? do spiders feel lonely after a rich meal. do they steal glances at the carefully secured exoskeleton, now too light to weigh the web down at all.

you see it with the horror of imagining a missing limb, because you've had one of your hands occupied before. but there is no body at all. it's something below, spineless, scrap. an aborted misery, and nothing has been removed from my whole like a limb, this is all of it. there was nowhere to attach anything in the first place. you don't know this shape. loneliness is an absence for you. it is a hunger to fill. i am entirely stomachless, not gutted like a fish or voracious like the bonsai, but liquid like the sky they devour. you weren't born alone, but i never learned there were options. until i was fed. and with the sweet nectar climbing my airways, with the juices tacky on my skin and rich in bliss on your face, dripping down your chin and arms, i ache for somewhere to keep it, and a mouth to taste (like) you.

[hemoclysmic]

02/10-22

man in church.

bile in his throat cutting up his breath, gravel in his eyes vomiting something ragged. he crashes into the ground and heaves, retches, soaking with salt. do you believe in god? his fingernails brittle and skid against the waxed ground, digit prints dragging squeaky. planes carrying burning song, nay, psalm--ready to rain fire and sulphur. do you believe in god? it's greyblown granite under his palms. it's cold. through his wet forehead this wreaks his skull, hollow ache like a joint stretched. the floor feels like his teeth. he would wreck them together, smash himself against his father's molars until he's in pieces, in his place as the son, cleanly split into body and blood. his nails skitter once more on the enamel of this beast's fangs, searching for grip. in his own throat, something does the same.

he shudders. behind him, the sacristy offers fetid wounds on his liturgy. acrid acid after- or perhaps foretaste swills over his tongue like moonsick waves tasting dry sand. raw light assaults the beast's stained eyes, fucks its way through the colored glass and spills its patterned seed on the teeth by his head in the shape of the mother who, lucent and blue, prays for him, now and at the hour of his death. a bird that got Swallowed alarms overhead, haunting off the nave walls and then the holy ground and then back up the walls and on the vaulted ceiling and then everywhere all at once until the sound floods and flocks like fucks of a feather breaking through the beak of one.

do you believe in god? why else would i be here; where else would i go. he tears his hair out in fleshful clumps, spilling himself on the floor. where else would i go?

the confessional begins unweaving its screen, freeing wire hands that slither toward him like a garden snake. the votive candles hiss. he hisses back, strangling himself.

it doesn't matter if god exists. i do, he says. and then he vomits in earnest, purging god from the floor of his stomach. the son's body and blood, fouled by acid, sins his sacred altar.

vessel now hulk, he stalks down the aisle, weeps through the mouth and dies on the steps just outside.

the bell behind reproaches him with a bellowing midnight. out here, the blazing light caresses his transapparent skin, doting.

[hemoclysmic]

18/06-22

i did not have regrets until you.

 i used to believe that was peace—it was because i was a river. i was flowing forward without looking back. i used to believe it was a good thing.

 it dawns on me, now, it may have been that i was nothing at all. you must live to have regret. i was not invested enough in my life to care. i could dig myself a waterfall at any time and bow out.

 a river runs clear. it runs clean. it fights the paralysing cold. it beckons life. a pool of blood feels nothing. it trickles from the deer's still warm skin, from it's hot guts, steam against biting air. it stains the frozen ground and there it remains, only sinking at best. a lucky rivulet may successfully seek it's way to running water, get to feel the rush for just a second before losing itself to it. orange smoke and then nothing. as it were.

 sometimes the truth only exists if you hear it from anything but the horse's mouth. it drinks from the pure river, transforms clarity into filth, infects and taints. sometimes you need the hunter with the license to carry. is this what you wanted?

 we just started and never stopped.

 i think it's time, now.

 you must understand; i don't regret pain for the sake of regretting it. i don't wish to undo the wounds i've held, whitewash, unweave my scars. your sickly sweet burning rot, though, it's eaten me up. trees decay from the inside out. wet soils cause uprooting (they can't get a proper grip, and neither can i). the wrong wires crossing, wrong lives, it's what breaks things down. a mountain can stand solid so long as the sea doesn't lap away. that's the nice way. the truthful one is, we are balancing on a globe. and we're good at it, but odds are odds. and i'm kicking them with steel toed boots. i'm routing the river over them and watching them break down over millennia because the cold water weakens my hands so i can't dig it myself. i have a pile of sand and burning eyes. that's the fruit of my vigil.

 it's dawned on me, i don't know peace with you. i know a miserable semblance i feel only when i'm forcing myself to stop crafting lies to justify the rage i have for you in the midst of the affections. that's love. and i regret it all.

we should not have met.

[hemoclysmic]

08/06-22

the fool

i drink instant coffee. i wear jackets that are everyone's but mine. i keep an inhaler on me. i straighten my back. i smell like vanilla and tobacco and coffee. i dry lavender and press flowers. i dig my hands into the rich earth and feel it crawl in and curl up to hibernate under my nails. i get anxious travelling with suitcases. i collapse on myself. i can't apologise. i add some sugar to savoury meals i cook. i don't cry. i run my hands under the tap until they're red-hot. i sit in the forest, shaded by the trees, for hours on end. i am alive when i'm alone. i go home. i survive. i don't tell you how i feel. i know there's an unspoken line for the bus. i wait until it's too late. i drown you. i survive. i know how to swim. i go to graveyards alone to visit graves of people i didn't know. i weep over lives that expired last century. i don't cry over my own dead. i don't smoke cause it was lung cancer. i carry smokes cause i like the smell. i survive. how much does a headstone give away?

i listen to instruments from my corpses times. i listen to everything that survived his childhood. i listen to the stuff that should've been mine. i never lived in the countryside but it's the only place where i always have. i knit. i sew. i read. i plant meek things that never survive long enough to fruit. i neglect everything in my care and ache when it wilts, as if i have the right to. i survive. i pick up the strings of others' pasts and presents and weave them into myself as if you can adopt the pains of another person. it's more selfish than it sounds. i love a view and i'm scared of heights. i add a little salt to everything sweet. i know not to use the whites of a rind. i prefer cats. i wear women's jeans. i'm scared. i like my eggs cooked at a 6 minute boil. i think houses should be red. i had to teach myself. i count in the shower. i get sugar free applesauce. i know it's all garlic and onion. i tell people they look nice. i switch between cursive and print when i write and i don't know why (it always reverts to cursive if i care, even if i fight it). i take walks longer than every life changing event behind me. i still fear you'll leave me behind in the city or on the side of a road like you threatened, even now, when i can care for myself. i don't like wheels, or being above them. circles are the worst shape. i wait for hands to be wrapped around my wrist, all the way around, up my forearm. i wait for big eyes. i wait for gripped by the shoulders and shaken like it'll fix me. i wait for a cold shower down my skull and neck, wet clothes, not enough air, something big to shock me out of it. it's like breaking an arm to distract from a cramp, you get that, right? drowning a crying child. i still hold my breath when i feel too much. i keep my card in my phone case. i recoil at touch i used to lean toward. nobody does anything on purpose and it still fucks you up so royally. i try to see the best in people and it pisses me off when i catch it, cause a good reason doesn't mean you don't deserve better. i'm sick of people making excuses for me. i reach out and end up hovering. my cheek is pressed against the air next to yours. my chin rests on something invisible above your shoulder. it still awakens a glass housed bird in me when people laugh or whisper or look too close. i still seek out good rocks. i still have the ones i collected as a kid. i spell like a motherfucker. i write. i dont cook anything without the vent hood on. i scare myself. i make notes in the margins of books. i step over my feelings like theyre laundry piles. i dog-ear pages. i hide in and outside my body.

the point : i am a quilt, or if you prefer, chewed up digested shit out pile, of all the people i've loved and hated and the strangers around them. they shaped me, still,

i cant grasp the concept that i affect the world around me. my hands pass through everything. i am a weightless presence save for the burden i cause. i dont make changes deeper than shells. when i disappear and you call me and i pick up on the third call to a sigh of relief and in a watery voice you thought id killed myself. when it hurts you that i treat your feelings for me as if they were never substantial cause i don't think they are. when you tell me you want me and i say there's nothing to want. when people care about me, they're claiming palpability from me when i'm not real. you direct feelings at me and i step aside, out of their path, and watch them fall into the hole i dug in the wall behind me, clatter into the cavity between the insulation sheets. then i ache over empty.

i'm sorry for being so focused on cutting off and keeping in the new growths springing off me, i didn't realise i was slashing your exploratory hands in the process. i will let the world dig it's fingers into me again. i just need time. is that okay? i just need time.

i'll put the trimmers down, stop cutting flowers that bud; i'll survive the bloom. again and again, i'll survive. i'm going to be more. every opening doesn't have to be a wound. i am going to grow into a poultice for both of our bleeding hands.

[hemoclysmic]

28/05-22

Rats Over Concrete

I used to think you smelled warm. It's just stale now. Closed in. I'm trapped in the basement of your chest, and you won't breathe me out. I'm bound and gagged, weaved into your ribs. Wound around the wound where I slipped in after my blade. You barely bled. You're bored with me, you won't bleed for me, you won't bend me, still you won't break the boards barricading me in. Just in case you get sick of someone else, I suppose. You want begging? I'll beg.

I lean in to you and I sink to my knees and I pull you down with. You open me for yourself and keep me there, the way you like your options. Cold floor burns flayed flesh. Is this wide enough for you? I dig my fingers into your skull, as if your bone would give when you don't. I press your cheek into my face or my face into your cheek, whichever you prefer, whichever. Anything. Whatever. You breathe. I wish I could steal it. Even, in the way of not caring. Bouncing off your ear, my voice comes back more desperate than I wanted to betray, gasping, broken the way you like it. Me.

Tell me. Say it. My grip tightens, and I ache to hurt instead of just slip through you, perfectly fitted between your atoms. Tell me you don't want me so I can leave.

You shudder and shiver under me, like old machinery. It's acting. You're newly built, renovated, well oiled. You have people that see to that. But it's good acting, and I swear to suspend disbelief, to drop it, to unhand you, if you would just end my grief. But your voice leaks over my wrist. I can't do that. Drips slowly then faster, running in rivulets down my arms. Like my skin itself is opening up vertical fissures from your shockwaves. It smarms down, hot, red, viscous. It disconnects at my elbow, pools at our feet, thick grease. I don't wipe the corner of your mouth.

Use me, then. My grip slips, fingertips sliding down your skin. There is nothing to hold onto here. There is no anchor. Your rope is around my throat.

I'm at your disposal. So use me.

I sink to level with your shoulders, burning eyes pressing into your polished skin. Granite. I scrabble at your edges.

I can't waste you. I can't consume you.

So I'm just a sticker to you. Collectible. Unstuck. Dusty. I drag my fingers through the pool at our shoes. I smear it on myself. If you won't kill me I can play dead. The blood's not real but neither are we.

You stand. You leave the room. I can't.

You don't offer to leave the door open.

I draw the curtains.

This sepulchre is for the blind-eyed.

[hemoclysmic]

10/05-22

Morning, Craft, Watch

I awoke to wake you in the wake of charons ark;

I eked out an echo of your esse and it ached more than if I'd eschewed everything you'd been. My voice stronger than vice

Grip on the scribbled slip of supporting signals, shrouding slips of the tongue, of my fingers

Too close to the way they grazed your face

I rang out over the courtyard, rousing ravens, a stray mouse. It wasn't right, it wasn't how I write, not my carefully wrought plan. To honour the wordwright.

It was supposed to shake, to break, but I stood solid as your newly engraved stone. I rang out.

I rang

Your phone, still expecting you to pick up. Do they leave your voicemail open, down there?

Are you yet settled in the spoke of your spine, sleeping in the soil? In death, a spiculum-straight no-nonsense speculating wraith, clawing and clinging to my curtains, like you want me to know I have to stop thinking.

I won't. I will smell your smoke.

The body I remember is warm.

[hemoclysmic]

22/04-22

i know that id be so fucking bad at it in actuality but sometimes i look out of my window to see splinters of everyone else's lives happening together and i cant help but ache for domesticism.

im never in the moment with other people the way i am alone, above, observing the outside, but i wish i could feel this grounded. i want peaceful moments with someone else, i want a life i am at home in, i want joy in companionship, i wanna sit on a balcony and look at the street, i want to feel stillness instead of boredom instead of think of something to say instead of when you look at me what do you see

i cant remember ever feeling peace in the presence of another person. i want a mind i can read but don't need to. i want a presence that doesn't feel like one. I just, cant, pretend, i don't feel watched.

let me be the cat on the balcony. honey what are you thinking about. silent head on shoulder. there is nowhere and everywhere to go. do you wanna go for a walk together, even though we'll get murdered? in the blue hour. i want to be a ghost with someone else. watch with me. just watch. the balcony railing lights, lit windows/unlit, silhouettes on the street below with direction, cars and cars and chatter and wind static. not noticing shivering. just standing together. held but not holding. i would like to not be always holding, just be holding, behold with me. that's it. because we're never running out of time, we can still fit all of it into moments like these, a fold on a circular line. we have the luxury of forgettable moments. that is all. it's all the difference. it's all the same.

the luxury of moments that don't matter. deliberate dead space. that's the most expensive wish i have. i think it's the only thing dense enough that it could finally sat(urat)e me. yes and no are both wrong answers. are you getting me? i want to not have to cram meaning into every moment because you'll be gone by tomorrow. i get caught in a loop. all i want is a nothing that means something because it's empty. please. just be a rock sinking in the ocean. with me. be a watcher. look at everything you've seen before and will see again and assign it no other meaning than it has in it's own existence and dont tell me anything you're feeling because words are weak and inaccurate and i will understand because you sigh and your hand lands somewhere on me. because we are alive. just give me one moment where you're not giving me anything.

[hemoclysmic]

16/04-22

the way you burn is similar to a forest fire.

there is a burnt part, a yet to be burnt part, and a gash of live fire separating them.

do you feel the heat?

you are sitting in the ashes. you are watching the coal reflect on your fingertips. you are digging your lungs into the dust and anchoring yourself to the scorched earth. iredescent feathers. there is time. all the time.

you're red-hot, glowing, crackling, impurities cleansing. you're split second decisions. you're dry porous. you're hungry devouring insatiable. you're radical tearing off through blindly. you're suffocating. you're going over the rails.

you're watching it approach you're running you're tripping over yourself you're you're you're god get up it's behind you it's in front of you you can't you haveto you're oh

you're red hot. glowing. crackling. impurities cleansing.

you are sitting in the ashes. you are watching.

you are seeking fireweed in the smoking fuel you've torn through.

no

an excitable medium is a medium a wave can pass through only once. these have a refractory period; the time it takes for the wave to be able to pass through again

(fireweed)

you've taken a few turns, haven't you? pyrophyte.

do you wag that tail of yours? are you?

anchoring yourself to the scorched earth. anchor, sinking, cause that's what you need, but there's nothing to hold onto, a heat sink, one you're throwing up into by stolen mirrors and graffiti'd walls.

i can hear the mantra, hunger doesnt control me, you want everything you can't have, like you're praying to it

you will not stop until it hurts.

[hemoclysmic]

13/02–31/03-22

you're possessed, look this child in the eyes.

there's something dark in you.

look this child in the eyes.

tell it.

as you twist this child's skin, as you dig your fingers into its flesh, look it in the eyes, and tell it.

you have something very dark inside you.

you're dirty within.

pray over this broken babe, atonement for your sins, a burden unladen unto you. this little life. drown it's head in blessed water and stick needles in it like a doll. a small, aching thing.

look this child in the eyes.

look. it. in. its. eyes.

if you have to turn it by its chin, if you have to pry them open, if you have to move to catch it or take up its entire field of view.

pierce it's eardrums, dig your shrillest in and twist it.

look it in the eyes, cut through them. and tell it.

hold it's fluttering hands still. tamp down a bobbing knee. still the rocking. force a tolerance (numbness. disconnect.) if you cut it out from it's body, this too is an exorcism.

too old for it's age.

this means: too much pain for such a small body.

it means: a child blind to other children.

it means: too much and too little, always off beat.

you've always been a bit haunted.

she said

you've always been a bit haunted.

maybe

don't fucking haunt me then.

[hemoclysmic]

28/03-22

theres a thin line between x and y

and youre putting it on your wrists

and im tying it around my neck

(performing burlesque, going to the office, standing in the garage hands shaking hoping itll hold)

its a thin line shes painting on her face and that's keeping the rails together.

it's a thin line she traces with her fingertip on her windshield, it's a thin line she twirls as she bats others.

it's a thin line that he sinks through to the chopping board underneath, it's a thin line he cuts.

it's a thin line he dashes the T:s with and it's a thin line he holds the letters steady against and it's a thin line that says nothing left on a kitchen table, it's a thin letter full of thin lines of thin letters against thin lines that will never be more than another hollow carved next to his, that will never fill in the gaps in the walls of a rented house.

it's a thin line that grows taller and thinner, it's a thin line that wilts and becomes a thin circle. it's a thin line soaked with your blood and it's a thin line that gets thinner. it's a thin line that defeats water still and it's a thin line that he ties the tackle with before he topples his opponent. it's a thin line in a bad windsor.

it's a thin line and you're clinging onto it.

[hemoclysmic]

12/03-22

i'm not unlovable.

don't you understand that makes it worse?

so much more insidious. i crawl inside your cracks and die there. i scrape you up inside-out. so you don't notice til it's too late.

don't adore me.

i latch on like a leech. i'm never satisfied. i'm hungry like a chasm and you're barely a full bite. i love having been loved, i love squirming in the wake of it, aching over the strings stretched thin from past to present, playing them like a harp. listen to the melody: it's split.

tell me. is it worse when you understand, and still can't stop it? the weight of your death sinking slowly. when you have me figured out so well you know how hopeless it is, you loved me so deeply that you learned, and now you're watching knowing there's no outcome where i'll let it go well. i'll never let us be. i'll never let you love me, or me you.

[hemoclysmic]

22/02-22

i'm on your porch. sitting obedient, tail down. whining to let you know i don't care.

i wanna grip your face in my hands and yell that you're losing me, force you to pretend like its not on purpose, just one last time.

Do you even say it for a laugh anymore? Or just because you can. Because you didn't notice, but at some point, you just started liking the way it felt when i let you speak to me like that and you meant it.

I'm not your mutt.

i'm an arrow from the forest, spearhead mouth and forward eyes. i carry parasites and pests and death. i drop them at your door.

i flash something double from the treeline.

i'm a howl in the night.

your walls and windows leach heat, is all. you shouldn't feed it. you shouldn't crouch down, offering your hand just to see. if you want something tame, you get something tamed, because i won't step in the same snare twice, you hear me? and you're begging to be bitten like you haven't before.

i'm not.

[hemoclysmic]

27/01-22

i like to think i evicted you from me.

sometimes, though

a stranger draws your smile

or

my voice avalanches into yours. (i try to peel it off, but once it sticks... i'm better off licking a pole in the winter and waiting. right?)

sometimes, i can't peel oranges. see dogs in the wrong color. see them in the right one. tell stories. roll dice. walk into orange rooms.

if we're both in here, what's in you?

if you live inside me, where am i?

you are could be the

emptiest person alive

and

still,

i don'tthinki'deverfit.

toothpaste on the wrong side of the tube, maybe, frozen soup in a ziploc. (soup, that's another one for your side. how dumb.)

anyone's hands on my head turn into yours, crown nightmare-shifting into spiders, with love like you pet a dog and not your equal, i was always on my knees in front of you and drowning in your clothes. holding my breath just cause you begged. gasping.

when my tongue burns. when it doesn't.

fucking inhaler loyal to me like i was to you, stuck to me like a paper wristband (hospital, fair, festival, hospital, fair, festival...) even though my lungs work fine (you'd know). because yours don't. i should've choked you. i couldn't ever. here she comes, little saint bernard. was that it? was that all, then.

heel.

yeah, i like to think

you knocked down walls and expanded the floor plan and locked me in the broom closet. nest like you always did

i like to.

[hemoclysmic]

22/01-22

as a child, i'd spend my summers reading under the orange blossoms. once the fruit ripened (sufficiently for the impatience of a child, anyway), i'd scale the tree. hunting. up in the crown of our orange blossom, i was safe, i was powerful. i towered like the forest, strong and immobile, swaying but never toppling. i picked carefully. it was to be the brightest, richest one i could find, plump enough to weigh it's branch down. shape it like a wilting girl.

i'd bite into the orange just like that. the juice would drip down my chin, run between my fingers like tears. i hated the stickiness. but oh, how it paid off, my labour and sacrifice; prickly zest and bitter pith nestled in cutting sweetness. no orange has ever tasted as good.

i find myself, these days, searching for ways to rid the bitterness entirely.

i find, that the roots are uncomfortable to sit on, and the bark is filled with bugs. the way the branches fit in my palms makes my skin glow resentful, and their song under my soles doesn't sound as promising as i remember. i think trees were made to carry children. maybe to give them something to cling onto. provide the thrill of being at the top, where adults can't reach you, where you're taller than them and hidden from dinnertime.

i find, that i can't stop my eyes skipping over words and repeating sentences. they won't focus. the pages are harder to turn. my fingers slip off the paper, it folds and tears, a page falls out the end and slides under a drawer. my hands were gentler in youth, somehow. even as they tore the limbs from ants, even as they shattered glass, even as they bled. maybe it was because they carried me, up the tree. into the books. they gifted me oranges and stories and security. and now?

i find myself late at night, scalding orange peel that i'll never eat because i can't throw it out until it molds. i only buy them for the flesh. i only want something sweet, but i bought them whole.

maybe we were made to be children. maybe we made a world for ourselves and got so busy building it, we forgot to live in it.

the juice makes my skin blister.

[hemoclysmic]

22/01-22

i know decay

all too well

the smell of rotting pork

on a set table

in my mouth

the way maggots

feel

against your neck

their writhing

undulled

by a pillow case

i know

my mother's

vacant eyes

and my father's

decomposed entirely

the hands i've held

twigs shrouded

in silk

too tired,

from a century of holding in, keeping out

too tired.

to do anything but drape.

it is a welcome visitor

a lifelong stalker i open my door for

[hemoclysmic]

20/01-22

i was never great at being a teenager. or a kid either for that matter. these days, i worry that a lifetime of fighting to make good decisions catches up to you, like i'm waiting on hold.

i keep praying for a cigarette between my fingers or train tracks on my back or poison in my veins. maybe it's just more fun to risk it when you've got responsibilities outside of being responsible. maybe i missed out. maybe it won't pass. maybe i should've given into the craving to topple it when there wasn't so much to build back up--then again, i guess i just skipped straight to the sharp end of a toothpaste tube, pencil sharpened hips. what did my parents teach me that that felt milder than a healthy dose of underage intoxication?

the worst bit, is that good kid credits don't carry over to the next part. you just keep fighting yourself, and then sainthood makes for the deadest of adults.

i dont know what i think will happen if i let it go. if i let anything touch me. eternal damnation? very possible. spontaneous ignition, hellfire, etc. (though i think brimstone would go just lovely with the kitchen cabinets.) plausible.!

lesser people have died before 30.

[hemoclysmic]

17/01-22

this is everything i was afraid of. i'm living the dream. i'm living the dream, alone in a room that's not mine in a life that's far too mine, all alone in a hazardously lit parking lot, all alone and they say to assume they like you but i'm stuck with the wrong Close. this isn't shelf stable. it's always i'm not going anywhere until you realise you can afford new running shoes. it's always i wouldn't, until i'm sitting there reading a book of blackened matches.

assume people like you. i'm pressing myself into an airtight container and cramming it under my bed with the others.

i'll never be anything, but i'll be more than you. does it matter? ill cram this paper (proof that they own 3 years, all of my life) into my mouth for charon and that'll be it. cause when you die you'll live, and when i do i'm not coming back.

i used to wish i was lonelier. so i could do it properly. it doesn't help: it's harder to die alone.

sometimes i'm scared you still think about me. like your thoughts'll grow legs and come haunt me, like your neurons'll run over and climb into my mouth when i'm sleeping. i'm dirtied with it. you've carved yourself into my face. i can't look people in the eyes, they'll see it, the warnings you left for them. i can't get it off. nothing penetrates deep enough. will i ever be clean enough? will i ever be clean?

it's wrong, the weight of my body on itself, these organs i carry, the space they take up. i'll never be small enough, pure enough, i'll never be a blank canvas. i'll never be rid of me nor anyone else. i'm a picture album paying tribute to the worst traits of everyone i've ever wanted to see me.