i want to break every mutinous bone in this stupid flesh sack. as i sit and poke myself with every jutting edge, rubbing together like i can whittle them down through papier mâché skin-layers, i want to scream let me out of here, rip myself apart and lay out every single calcified stick on the floor and count them like i count the hours in the day and the minutes in the hours and the seconds in the minutes and the micronanopicoseconds tick tick ticking away like bombs in disguise, like a parade of paltriness, a flotilla of fear. i want to use each puzzle piece of me to go to head with the voices in my head, combat striking at sunset saturating me in drenching salt-sweat that rolls down my cheeks and i flick my lips and i can almost taste it, but i'm bone-dry and empty, i'm aching and breaking, i'm fighting and screaming, and any other day i'd say fuck this feels wondrous and i think i'd be glorious but tonight i'm dissolving and blinkblinkblink squeeeeeze shouldersheave comeonjustadropnow shedonelittlestupidtearfor me but you're a desert. you fucking wish. you wrap your arms around your legs, arm-bones rubbing against lower-leg-bones and jawbone scraping against kneecap-bones and the exposed skull-bones the anatomists call teeth gnashing and your every spine-knob-bone arching-aching and your finger-bones shearing your skin, you wish to splinter and have every shard sacrificed to a funeral pyre. what, like you're some sort of fucking martyr? no, like a fucking coward. or maybe martyr and coward are synonymous after all, because what is greater cowardice than death? life is pain; death is floating, weightless, sensationless - la paix. c'est tranquille, ça, oui, et en le mort, il n'y a pas des désastres; en fait, c'est the bitterest con, de ce n'est pas the sweetest paradise.
