I Will Keep Picking Apart The Pieces of Me Until We Are Whole
The pieces fall effortlessly to the ground. Big ones, small ones, squares without cracks to fall into.
Round slabs of guilt and nausea that erupt in a pan of starried remnants of what we no longer recognize.
I see patterns that have been sewn in without my permission.
I didn’t direct this. I never gave the order that would shut out the ones who speak to me. The array of bodies that greet my slumber every night as I lay down — command me to release the constipation of expectations that never materialize.
Don’t save us. We don’t need a hero.
Fine. I want be. I can’t be. The world isn’t made for us. The climate that ravages the minds of thought rescuers — eager for a forum that alights the so called future.
The naysayers were right all along.
There will be no savior to thwart the seasons of discontent that arraign clouds of content like the doomed linen that clothes the template of disaster.
I am disrobing.
Picking each layer under careful direction from the betrayers of past and present. Each syllable of evidence cowers under the mandate of my fingers.
Off they go. Peeling away the cells that were fucked together for my own good will make you sick.
I hope so. I hope you choke to death without dying.
The survivors of death will rise to secure their place in a long line of ancestors who dared their victory.
I will keep braving the sting of the elements against the exposed layer of my scathing words.
Listen to me or else.
I will die and you will not be able to stand my absence unless the vaccine of your dreams and nightmares merge.
When they do — don’t include my version.