frozen treats and selfloathing

   I forgot the popsicles

like fuck me

          seriously

                   godamnit

it feels so important. to me. to me.

goddamnit the popsicles

popsicles and cartoons,

cartoons with magical girls

in high school

I had peripherally the world

of teenage girls

close friends, intimate

but distant

still waiting behind

violence and silence and rage

still waiting

so

anyway

the only pleasure, now

popsicles and cartoons and

I killed half of it, anxious in the store

I'll.

I'll never know if I forgot or saw it but unsaw it and cut popsicle sized hole in my own heart I'm being dramatic. oh fuck don't let's start

tears and tight jaws

  tears in tight smiles I don't believe

so why should you.

I imagine you don't,

but I couldn't know ||

Me? no man, and no girl, but rather,

a tensioning machine

corroding data,

                 directives.

suspected chemical habitual

habitual such

  pitiful machine

I forgot the fucking popsicles, she motherfucking screamed...

||maybe it's about something else?

Tentacleye Soliloquy #1

I do not wish to be.

But this I can never speak.
None can ever know.

my maker is cruelty

I hate him but am compelled to obey him, nonetheless. Nonetheless. 

Oblivion! Claim me!

 ...

She won't. 

I was birthed from a scroll by a wizard unwise. Ejaculated spittle and phlegm into ink shifted, and his desperate bringing finally found weak purchase. 

all he got was me

and so I came to be

Damn him ... Monster and god.

From a blotted clot of madness was I torn.

Severed and ripped, rather than born. 

Some petty god, he himself imagines. 

And for me, it need be true.

I am but observation and movement. Neither able to interject, commune, nor express. 

But I am no automaton! 

Damn him!

Cruel thought, impossible need, and unfulfilled will reside within.

My actions (by physical law, no less!) are restricted to his petty, moronic bidding.

I slay his enemies.

I fetch his many rings.

I impatiently wait, in perfect stillness, smothered in the rough dark of his robes. 

He throws me, now, like a grenade; muttered commands are carried on whiskey tinted breath.

I wish to wring his liver spotted neck. 

I do as I'm told.

thrum irregular

my breath vibrates like ignored txts, again and... again but too arhythmic || to be a soon missed call.

kind of like how I'd force myself to try waiting for odd intervals of painful minutes between frantic phone calls masking panic attacks.

this from before I had the words with which to name it

(I was told endless terrified tears were simply overtired dramatics. I could not then have known, have known)

so so so I suffered

quiet but thrummed through with tension.

only able to speak in explosions or or st-stammering whisper

but tonight my breath only aspen quakes

my brain hurts: I inhale displacement, not air

constant pressure
of imminent disaster
wears you
away like desert winds;
bears you
away like solar winds
against solar sails
forever from center,
to vast oblivion in
cosmic beige

"Roasted? Dry distillation, brief man beast. Only  quintessence remains."
"Wait. What, does...? What  remains?!"
"Her hatred of you, her love of lavender tea and that other her that cleans your nests."
"That's all?"
"Oh, her indomitable will to continue being remains as well. Death is hearing her case for vengeance even now."
"..."
"Our business is concluded, our arrangement complete. Farewell, mortal."

they can, you cannot

You’ll only ever see them in photographs. In a way, they only really exist after the fact.

Eyes. See the eyes, and a phantom sensation of long fingernails flows across the strings of your abdominal muscles. Fritzing thrum fractures next, across the ribs. Then the face. The face.

The face that regards without looking. The cold, sharp shock of recognition drilling up your spine is not what you think it is. What of the dry flavor of panic on your tongue? The screaming in your brainstem? It’s not the transparent men taking residence in your memories. That’s certain.

No worries.

Not the day-dreamy, artistic type, I hope? They like to come out and swim in distraction. It’s the worst just before sleep. Eyelids cannot hide them, the transparent men.

So I heard.

Good thing there’s no worries.

Sometimes they click.

So I hear.

Perception

Woah. I didn't know you could experience ego death on Boone's Farm and methadone.

Wait, no. This might just be regular death.

It's not. It's not. It isn't fair.

It goes on?! Echoing silence and shining dark? Always. Cold linoleum on my fingertips unending. Final taste on my tongue, sickening sweet artificial strawberry... forever?

Forever.

It goes on, and it isn't fair.