door

Weaving sigils out of nightmares and nightmares unravel to become the beaten dead horse that’s demolished and rotting. It barely holds form as anything more than a pile of organic matter. My eyes turn to dry wall turn to pain turn to drywall turn away so far I become a fucking rock like I took a hit of salvia. I did drugs to be uncomfortable. I feel like doing heroine. I feel like smoking meth or just laying down and forgetting I’m real and fading off through the door. That fucking door that’s always tempting me. I have ignored the urge to write the note and to be fully honest it’s because I don’t really want to do anything. I don’t even want to kick the bucket. I just want to detach my presence and throw it so fucking far away I’m beyond dead. I want to detach. No form of suicide is appealing because it’s an event. Even just not eating ever again takes so god damn long. Life is fucking long. Art is the only thing ever interesting and the only thing that ever will be. I’m fucking exhausted. The god damn note. I wish it would go away. I don’t want to die here, I can’t stomach the fact they would see my body or call me the stupid fucking name they gave me. Call me any fucking name but that one. I’ve cried alone for so many years and I still am not here.