chest feels mined. rib bones sawed off. lungs and heart gently removed with rubber hands. placed on a scale to see what weighs more. the heart is all squished. lungs hollowed out from screaming. membrane cooked into meat.
everyone speak cryptically. every update, no matter how benign, has some kind of nerve-splintering tone to it. their books are all in your face, so it sounds like they're all rubbing your nose in their shit, blaming it on you.
Don't know if it hurts to be alone anymore. it only hurts when someone enters, makes you think maybe they're worth it, and then they cease communication, go off with someone else, and you realize your advice, your platitudes, the effort was all for naught.
"@#$% %$#@!&*^ is now In a Relationship"
fucking wonderful. i knew i had this bullshit for a reason.
it's just the fucking internet. i'm only in this little room. laughing in the dark.
the morning sounds and feels like this;
like stone saints and rock monsters weathered from rain, caked in moss, offering the mournful glances flesh somehow forgot.
If writing truly is the equivilant of physically hurting myself, i would have gone through this whole thing a hundred times over for the last ten years.
there's still ten minutes left in this morning. loverly.
PM DAWN EDIT: COMBAT SHOCK HAS ARRIVED. DAY HAS BEEN MADE.