(no subject)
Something is disintegrating. Maybe the imbalance I was so distraught by these months passed has reclaimed some leveling. The urge, sometimes it isn't there at all. I think I feel ready, but none of my limbs move in tune with the hunger. I pretend these things hurt me, but I don't know what I'd do without them. The rhythm of incessant counting on my remorseful lips winning over my left-brain needs; the horror of such prison feeding my right-brain fears. The hue on the insides of my mouth defines purity of more than my skin, but the absolute point when surviving stops penetrating and pushing.
There's space for you. There's a place for you. Of course there is. I lie flat on my back and it gets harder and harder to insure gas trades in and out my lungs. "It's a warning sign for heart failure," a doctor would tell me, if I ever thought to ask why such a thing occurs. In time, something is disintegrating. The months or years have passed while it eats away at things I remember and things I know and faces and names and me until the only identifying aspect left is suffering--more clearly from implosion and almost completely detached from the painful emotions. It is a purely physical trauma that begins to take hold. It bleeds through the canvas of skin that gave hide-out for so long. The space you have in me is gone. The places you fit on me will sink in.
It has to be Radium: Protons and neutrons separating out of force, that's my excuse. Each breath I took kept blackening the ritualistic thoughts I let inside. There's something about holding hands and going down I don't so much mind, but we are disintegrating. As we divide, I divide too. If the only faith I have left is in this than the only thing left of me is faith. I am a demolished home. I am a diseased country. I am diminishing population. I am a dying art.
At least when I die, they'll pretend I was beautiful.
There's space for you. There's a place for you. Of course there is. I lie flat on my back and it gets harder and harder to insure gas trades in and out my lungs. "It's a warning sign for heart failure," a doctor would tell me, if I ever thought to ask why such a thing occurs. In time, something is disintegrating. The months or years have passed while it eats away at things I remember and things I know and faces and names and me until the only identifying aspect left is suffering--more clearly from implosion and almost completely detached from the painful emotions. It is a purely physical trauma that begins to take hold. It bleeds through the canvas of skin that gave hide-out for so long. The space you have in me is gone. The places you fit on me will sink in.
It has to be Radium: Protons and neutrons separating out of force, that's my excuse. Each breath I took kept blackening the ritualistic thoughts I let inside. There's something about holding hands and going down I don't so much mind, but we are disintegrating. As we divide, I divide too. If the only faith I have left is in this than the only thing left of me is faith. I am a demolished home. I am a diseased country. I am diminishing population. I am a dying art.
At least when I die, they'll pretend I was beautiful.