the charlatan’s words.

writing is the closest i come to expressing myself.
not fully, not even well most of the time. but
it’s the only way i’ve found to keep my sanity and myself alive.
the jumbled heap thrown out of the bin is methodically untangled.
i shared my words with two people today. i’m not sure if  in a day or week or hour i’ll decide to abandon this ground.
(packing up my bin to get re-tangled.
dumping it on fresh land.)
even now, my brain is stunted. i am overthinking and overcompensating for a deficit i’ve created through conceptualization and catastrophic thinking.
worst case scenario? my words are ..
simple, plain, a “false bad” to the psychologists.
meaning i am. if my words are inadequate then i’m inadequate then maybe i’m not really of any quality any worthiness maybe
i am faking.
maybe this reality i’ve constructed is so weak that a breath, a flick of hair, the minuscule tremble from a pin dropping, would turn it to vapor.
i hate hate hate thinking of that night with her, because i refuse to let something so trivial have any significance in my life. But i continue to learn daily how the events of that night and those few days were a microcosmic representation of my life.
my total and complete reliance and trust in people who i’ve grown distant from.
my superiority complex, my externalization, my deepest fear:
being so embedded in falsity that i can no longer see the truth.
living in my fantasy as my true self decomposes.

thinking when writing is to lie with every character, word, sentence you write down.

authenticity is a struggle between romanticization and reality
how can i adore manipulation, lies, honesty, and innocence simultaneously?
how can i cling to both sides while screaming about my inherent goodness?
how can i be good without being simpleminded?
how can i keep my sanity while every day expanding my mind father and
farther and
farther until it blooms and withers and dies?
call me fake and i have nothing but proof.
this is confusion that runs so deep that i’m sure the tears that are too confused on when to present themselves and the emotions that have by now congealed into one thick sludge and the physical incompetence and the stunted sexuality aren’t even aware of their deficiency. the electricity has gone out in my head, and the appliances are dead for the moment. hopefully it’ll be on before the house gets too hot.
how can i find solid value in myself when i am constantly preoccupied with the fear that my life is an elaborate lie? how can i share myself honestly if i don’t think anything about me is honest?



over the last two weeks,

have you experienced

Little interest or pleasure in doing things?
Feeling down, depressed, or hopeless?
Trouble falling or staying asleep, or sleeping too much?
Feeling tired or having little energy?
Poor appetite or overeating?
Feeling bad about yourself – or that you are a failure or have let yourself or your family down?
Trouble concentrating on things, such as reading the newspaper or watching television?
Moving or speaking so slowly that other people could have noticed? Or the opposite – being so fidgety or restless that you have been moving around a lot more than usual?
Thoughts that you would be better off dead, or of hurting yourself?
well, More Than Half The Days, certainly. i’m not sure i can say Nearly Every Day,
i’m still alive,
aren’t i?
Nearly Every Day Nearly Every Day Nearly Every Day Nearly Every Day Nearly Every Day


More Than Half The Days, certainly. i’m not sure i can say Nearly Every Day,
i’m still alive,
aren’t i?
Nearly Every Day Nearly Every Day
i’ve been through this all before.
i’ve seen rock bottom
and i’ve seen it again
and i’ve bid it adieu
and i’ve greeted it
and angrily
and joyously
and while sobbing into my arm
and stoically
and vacantly.
you could say we’re very close acquaintances.
not friends!
i don’t put this on friends!
once or twice, sure, fine,
we’ve all done it,
why not,
by the ninth breakdown, you don’t even have anyone to pull away from.
in an amazing feat of triumph of cowardice,
the intricate net of love, support, beauty, and glory has been
shred apart by
the bumbling fool.
How difficult have these problems made it for you at work, home, or with other people?

the gospel of the lamb, live from the slaughterhouse

the gospel of the lamb, live from the slaughterhouse
the early days of murder and savagery
confined and veiled,
the pain filling the walls,
heavy and soft, childlike.
(a rose glow, a silver glint)
she is a child, she is light.
(a white mist,a blur)

too late, too loud for her decry.
the knife to her throat,
skinning her strip by strip.
slowly, precisely, but all at once.

her wisdom, limited, but existent, will disintegrate with her brain matter,
all that is her ruthlessly ripped from existence.

i should have lived when i had the chance, she thinks, her stomach a well for her tears.

she is sinking.

the guillotine is lowering, but she sinks farther.

the lamb cries,
the well is full.
the lamb gurgles,
but does not notice.
the lamb cries for herself, because nobody else will.

i am a light and i am no i m i am  iam iam i am iam i

stupid fucking lamb, you waited too long to live, and now you are dead.

reflecting on the teenage girl’s longing

the teenage girl’s adoration and idolization of a smaller body is multifaceted,
not simply a craving for physical ‘perfection’.
the grieving of youth
of yourself
the sudden attention on you as you are transforming
uncomfortable alone, and now you are forced into a spotlight?
the smaller your body the less people can see you.
men will not leer and women will not sneer
and you can be comfortable in a shadow. behind.
you are the shadow of your present self.

your body is no longer your own.
it is the future of the population’s.
it is unfamiliar to the one person who has been with it constantly.
we are not comfortable with showing weakness.
it’s how we survive.
so we hide,
and how do we hide?
we hide in silence and in smallness.
our brains are not yet evolved enough to conceptualize our pain,
it is isolating and devastating but we must cover it.
we need control over something; nothing is ours.
physical appearance can be visibly altered by our actions,
ours alone.
we do not eat or we overeat or we overexercise or we rot.
we just want to be small.
we want to be little.