She is oblivious to even the slender, trivial echo of everything serene and sultry. In the mouth of hunger it's all desiccated, stale and homely. Delusional winds are stinking of everything she has already inhaled, bogus cold shivers are proliferating into goosebumps and her sanity is staggering on the brink of its hundredth collapse. The untangled past angst and quietened / stifled trauma is what her breaths have been reeking of and her poems are high on. Her indecisive inner voice and intrusive thoughts are severely drunk on potions and they think, her mouth bleeds all that venom and her hands are poisoned, unfurling the head damages and decrepit stitches at the bare touch and gaze. Her ghastly but desparate and wrecked aura anyway enchants the frigid icy but flimsy, loathed organs especially the one beneath their chest. She is done getting told to muster up/ take the plunge/ breathe deeper but no one underscores the betrayals, shoots away the heartbreak bullets, slashes out the sword of love shaped as defilement in the air. She is an imperative yet derelict excerpt of an unfinished lady, walking down the imperial staircase just to run into an unexecuted-nerve racking self at the other end. Her foot marks seem to be of a forsaken foot shielding enduring a self-stranded soul, a dysphoric dimension, h̶e̶r̶ ̶b̶o̶d̶y̶, that imbricates itself over the dejected layout where the extra edges are close enough to every branch of death paving its way through life in search of a monster in her wildness that's asleep for a few sad nights and some low spirited hours, the uncanny scraps falling off the cut out, fearing every far off, yet to ensue, yet to be true, a̶n̶x̶i̶e̶t̶y̶.̶
Her lungs echo every ounce of the soaked-suppressed-sad familiarity and suppression is sharp-spired-tipped, suppression is dissecting, suppression escorts her lungs. Her lungs are dissected and all they now want are cigarettes and breathlessness so they can smoke out everything she has violently gasped and choke on everything she has wildly loved, so they can decay to death.
The wet bathroom floor desires to flush me down my own disgrace, for the warmth of collapse because I've been frigid in the arctics of blood dripping off my nose, choking my own throat with capillary cracks finally developing into ruptures. I want to sneeze out the breathlessness and weep out everything that's stuck in my eyes and head like memories but my lacrimal glands are only proficient at unfettering blood than tears. I've swallowed morphine for the lungs but it's never enough, they have a majestic retort for all the cocaine my mother wished I had burnt but I rather gulped. My pain ran away/ abandoned me, wiped me off like a stain because I am a hopeless romantic and
[I held it too tight / for too long ]
My shadow stranded/ evacuated my body as I reek off destruction, swallowing a handful of hallucination and now I am a lonely phantom traipsing over all the past remorse, souvenirs of my sins, echoes of my perpetual ache stitched within my chest, watered by my ingested tears, growing all over my rib cage like hyacinth.
I found my home in delusions and grave in realism. I want to decimate it, tug my grave and let death be the only escape. My nails are scratching the mirror because there's nothing left to scratch my own self for, I've fed on all the decaying flesh. I want more of everything and less of everyone. My rib cage is macerating and the stench of it calls out the microbes and reduces the human in me.
[I am me? or I was me? ]
I am becoming an idea, a theory / spectral / phantasmic / corroded extract of death and angst, with a disembodied voice. I am a fallacy, the final illusion of the death domain I forever itched for, I am a royal massacre of all my living odds, where I've a mansion thronged with chimerical-soft death futon to destruct myself on, but I want to be the hazard, I want to die on the roads.