"va te faire foutre"

there's something tragically beautiful in dying from what we need to live. as my veins rust from the oxygen lifting my tumbling body out of bed, i've began to question my every routine, my every failure, my own sense of self. i didn't know who i was before, but i've merged and diluted myself in so much hatred and medication that i no longer know where the actor and the poet diverge.

i don't know how to write anymore.

every fucking pill i take in the morning makes me feel so inferior and useless, but when my temper and numbness both arise in the absence of my ssri's i realize how much more shitty it is. i'm hanging onto a thread or a moment where my improvisation can pull off some sleight of hand and change my status quo for real again. every metaphor and allusion and simile and reference i conjure up falls short to my unsympathetic imagination - carefully lined onto my internal NSA, my continuous epiphanies, and my ever-occurring sonder - i fall short to my previous existence.

how the hell have i peaked before my twenties.

and every word i type is misspelled and autocorrect is miserable and i guess every time i press delete i realize little by little how much more washed up i am. even my words, the perfect hidden internet oasis where i could bask in self-indulgence my pouring my guts onto an audience of people who have cared more for my inner monologue than the friends that i've spent my entire life with are completely dry and empty shells of a throne where i used to sit. i gained twenty pounds, maybe more. i don't get on that scale because i can't gamble on another loss. "former track star becomes recluse writer - see here the 20 things mr. no volume diligently describes how to screw up your life in two years".

and every waking moment of passion and interest murders me even more because every celebration is a spotlight on an empty drawer in my chest. i can't feel, i can't react, i am so out of touch with everything that i used to be and it only makes me drown in more self-loathing and desire. the irony is not lost in me; the broken machine who hates feeling like it doesn't feel anything. but i want more. i have a heart i want to give my life to, i want to tear down these rusted and calloused walls inside my heart and let the love i know is growing under there course through my veins and into hers, i want to breathe my soul into her body and i want to build a heart large enough to hold her and love her and curate the beauty that is her.

my heart is a pulsing bomb in a glass room under a waterfall. it's an art exhibit's best works melting behind their transparent cages. if i can see this - if anyone can see this, then why won't things change? why can't i break through these goddamn mental blocks that always come back and back again. why can't i seem to learn to stop myself from letting these thorns grow and line every entrance to my being time and time again.

i got hate mail from a ouija board lettered "from a former self" condemning my colossal streak of major fuck ups. i once thought i was special, a destined to be greater than myself type of guy that would somehow project and give everyone something that we all needed. i hated myself and i never wanted to live to see another broken human, and in worst case scenario, provide with the therapeutics and medications and shoulders to help everyone and everything. but i got lost along the way.

and i say that every fucking time and i never learn and i'm so goddamn tired of doing this that i just want to give it up and stop. where these eyes glistened at true love now lies a broken litebrite dimming out. and i write words on laptop screens that just serve as a virtual remedy and a virtual temple of thought and they don't mean anything. and i know tomorrow when i wake up, i'll be numb again and reading this will give me shame and cringe and trigger another goddamn round of existential doubt and crisis. i need something more.

i need something more.
i needsomethingmore
ineedsomethingmore
ineedsomethingmorei