i don't really feel like fighting.

in which the starving(?) artist can no longer be satisfied.

(a study on the complicated preferences of my nervous system).

i can't stomach food anymore. i eat, and i feel sick; i starve myself, and i feel sick, so i eat again, and i still feel sick. it's like something's trying to push the food out of me. i'm certain it's not my body that's sick; rather, it must be my brain. my brain can't stomach food anymore.

i can't stomach help anymore. i cry out, and i feel sick; i say i'm fine, and i feel sick, so i cry again, and i still feel sick. it's like something's trying to keep my pain inside of me. i'm certain it's not my body that's sick; rather, it must be my brain. my brain can't stomach help anymore.

i can't stomach my brain anymore. i cut, and i feel sick; i put the blade down, and i feel sick, so i cut again, and i still fucking feel sick, like the world's about to end. like something's trying to push my essence out through my veins and keep it hidden at the same time. i'm certain it's not my body that's sick; rather, it must be my brain. but what is my brain really? and what am i without it? my brain must be afflicted with the same self-hatred that i feel. i suppose we really aren't much different. my brain can't stomach itself anymore. i can't stomach myself anymore.

my brain can't stomach me anymore.