I once dreamt that there were nails in my forearms,
from the soft inside of my elbow to the thin skin around my wrist,
and someone pulled them out one by one.
my blood was deep crimson and thicker than honey, but there was no pain.
I wonder if I’m really living when I’m not enduring excessive hurt;
I wonder at how so many lights don’t seem to lift the blackness.
beckoned by fire and sadness,
even Syl broke trying to be her own. how can I make it?
it gets difficult exactly when it needs to be easier.
more dissatisfied with the silence than I’ve ever been before
but the words I say don’t rustle the quiet either.
I know my epitaph would read:
“I was nothing more than this.”
I even know exactly what my hell would look like,
a brimful and just a little more, sensory rapture of the silliest kind.
why don’t I change? why is the same sky above me and the same gloom in my throat?
there’s so much I wish I was but will never be.
only I remain, always –
an outcome unpleasant and undesired, but the only outcome that has ever been.
only I remain.
