,
sometimes I feel like an open wound that will never heal , that the grimy humid air washes over me and it'll be there to always make me flinch , that there wouldn't be something left in this house by the sand .
they will always take me apart and I don't know whether I'll be reassembled back . the otherness is a weapon and sometimes I think it's not only wielded
I am the weapon. you see me as one , this blue pink nightmare flinching at the sight of my aching bones as if they aren't brittle , as if they could hurt you , as if I dare to , as if as if as if
you build a castle of lies up in the clouds surround yourself in the home that I can only reach up and between my fingers; a thousand miles away, I see you while I'm on the ground . maybe the ground is hell for you , you make it to be for me.
cadaver lies rotting in your midst but turn a eye : roll it to the back of your head am I a weapon you use to hurt yourself to be a martrye ? self inflicted harm that was deliberate , isn't that what you tell me is the needles shooting new beginnings into my veins? maybe I cherish life even as a rotting corpse hair matted with blood the salty sea running from the eyes that are forced to see
annihilation. to feel pain and believe that I can be more that I dream as I clutch nothing in my hands except words and fleeting joy unfinished unfounded renewed