this is not a good month for me

the poles are pulling me to them stronger than ever
and it’s not a competition between beauty and
ugliness but beauty and nothingness. not between
sadness and joyousness or consciousness and ignorance
or envelopment and solitude. it’s the call to walk
delicately out along the string and knock your teetering
body off balance with a gust of perception (self) deception
and plummet towards almost total silence. the carrot dangles
and with every passing day the whispered hum drives me a
little closer to madness. but that’s something.

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is this it?

what if this isn’t a momentary setback, but a terrifying indictor of what lies ahead?

i am young enough to conceptualize many things but too young to understand

what if the time for understanding is obstructed by destruction

what if these nightmares are the light and i’m being afforded the opportunity to mourn myself before there is no me to mourn

psychosis. delusion. small, diluted, a piece of, a hint. obscured or not fully formed because there’s no reason? is my being a symptom of sickness?

it’s just you and me and the water and peace and serenity of this small room. in this box, we are invincible and immortal. the ground is cold and the tub is filling but everything is ok because you’re sleeping next to me. thank you for radiating love and utter acceptance. you will stay in this room forever in my heart

i think there are periods in which writing is art and others in which writing is speaking and others in which both of those are impossible. when the words are all i have and even them i fail, like a person unaware, unappreciative. i can’t be bothered with craftiness or care. in every relationship there are times when one needs to gather the other’s slack, and i guess this is no different. maybe there is a separate consciousness to words that is weary right now, too. and neither of us are able to carry each other.