I feel so strange, my eyes well up for no reason.
I would do so much for a warm body to lay next to. For palms pressed against mine.
The heart that completes this painful journey is only decayed flesh.
Listening to Nina Simone in the corner of my childhood bedroom, forcing the curtains open and the light in,
I would much rather be in the darkness, staring at all the holes in the walls that rage brought out of me.
It feels like there is this inescapable shadow, this patch of darkness. I want to scratch it off, etch it away. It’s not emptiness, it’s this constant reminder of all the big bad sad.
Something about those monstrous fears that took over my motor skills as a child in the bed, never seemed to leave me. It’s all catching up with us. The decades of pretending… it’s all okay.
Clinging to flesh and creating these false stories of companionship to save us from the truth. If it were all beautiful and nothing hurt, why does it feel like swallowing all these needles… why does it rip into my skin.
Creating life seems to be some epiphany. Steering us into an envelope licked clean.
I would much rather forget all this feeling.
Numbed my body for far too long.
Shooting up my veins in empty love.
Just stay away this time.
Killing sons isn’t my idea of fun.