don't open until you've finished whatever it was you were doing, and decided that you want to read some shit about-nothing-about-something that you'll have absolutely no fucking clue as to what i'm referring to in the slightest, as you and i are two of 6.66billion(ish) people all speaking a different language and pretending really-really fucking hard that we understand what the fuck each other just said...
i feel fucking dirty, i need to escape my own skin, i hate everyone i know, for some reason even the people i hate that are dying slow painful deaths around me are giving me empathy pains, my blood feels like dumpster juice, my heart like the ashes and fiberglass that fill and coat my lungs, my brains feel like burnt shit on burnt toasted brain stem, i've no one to talk to, and nowhere to write anything down that no one important will find it and politely request me to remove it, or just straight tell me to fuck off, i want to remember what it's like to have someone be really really in love with me, so much so, that i'm all they see, the way that i love someone, until i'm so lacerated by abuse or neglect or the energy i need, spent on other people, other projects, other everything but me, that i fall into little cold pieces of the beautiful creature i used to be, strong, fierce, dangerous, loving, forgiving, not jealous or terrified, not shell shocked by the explosions every step out from the middle of this minefield, but even more powerful and less afraid of the next step, now i'm so numb it burns like frostbite in hot water, so encompassed by pain that on a scale of 1-10 it's a "FUCK!!! YOU!!!" i've got the shakes like it's the first time i ever had to go through withdrawals, but it's the only time i've had them while i was clean, and they're not going anywhere, my eyes are like greased glass in sunlight, shine like tears and dull like spoon shanks, no giving up, and no relief, no touch soft enough to take away the tsunami of broken glass crashing against the insides of my skull,raining it's aftermath into my chest to settle in painful deposits, no word so sweet that i can't taste it's future bitter angry scream of false vengeance, coupled with excuses so poor they make poverty look flashy, being torn in more directions than i have names for, and trying to decipher why it even matters.
what. is. the. fucking. point.
rhetorically speaking, of course, because if you had the answer, you'd be dead
