For the record, let me just admit that it does hurt. To be so lonely at times. Because you were born with a splint in your head and you couldn’t find your own generation to blend in. Knowing that you could die without meeting even one person who can tell you, “I know why you’re doing this. I know how it feels. I know what you’re trying to say.” You could spend your days pretending you can be happy and soluble with everyone else but at the end of each day when you’re all alone with your thoughts again you know your nights will always end the same way.

When you’re all too aware that you’ve been putting your lonely head on your pillow the same fucking way every evening, you have to ask why. If even the loneliest of men could make his way through another night without jumping off the bridge, what could you be doing wrong? You can make your guesses and pray to god you stay wondering and wandering for long enough so you would not have to leave an excuse.

The weight of my reality and my mistakes has cracked the surface of my sanity and I lay here tracing the lines with a lone finger and a tired thought. I have begun toying with an idea, a possibility that I may not be well. That while warring against my emotions and my beliefs, while trying to start over again and again and again… I have snapped. In several places. I have branched out into different women wanting and trying, giving and wearing ideas that don’t seem to fit. I revolutionise myself every morning and fall apart every night. And it’s always the same. Always. The day cuts itself open and night bleeds out thickly over all of my things and I wish I could somehow fade into it and wait until it pales into morning where I cease to exist. It is a coward thought, but a hopeful one. There are too many cracks in my soul, too many chips in my bones and all the King’s horses and all the King’s men could never put me together again.

"March 14, 1969: Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share."

discreet

Scratched out lines on my own device
as tiny as my words
like fragments
a litter of metaphors
undefined thought space

Here’s a familiar face, running back. Pull my hair, please. I’m brushing up with an old self to dive under resolutions. Three years later, still tracing the same lines on my flesh. I live by this pulse. I explode. I incinerate. I master this process to witness interminably as it repeats. And I grieve. I am tired.