The Hoplite

eight

...and now, you're nothing. nothing multiplied by 7, if one can even call it that."

05/02/2024

and tonight, you lay in your bed thinking about it. not quite getting up to do it, though. legs twitching, and arms so very cold. the thoughts honing in together, making a singular mess, a Supernova tied together by the knots in your stomach. pivoting and gyrating and waiting to explode. it's really only a millisecond, too tiny to grasp, but so very present. so present it blew you into pieces, and you got carried away by the wind and now, you're nothing. nothing multiplied by 7, if one can even call it that. alone and alive, but only maybe, who knows?

and all that is left of me are these cigarette ashes on the keyboard of this computer, and a violent, persisting tremor. these tired hands and aching wrists, clacking away. wrapped up in a panic attack, a festive bow of some sick sort, decorated by guts and blood and night-sweats. that is all, and i am giving it to you, a desperate sigh following the action. my love is never ending, but so shy it hid in the corner the rest of the evening, occasionally slipping out awkwardly, and then convulsing back in. to be safe is to be limited, and to be limited is to never really take a full breath(except for when i'm taking a drag, of course)

[to be a writer is to be trash, a trashcan, and a filthy mop,i take everything and give so very littlei am a wreck and a car and the car and a person standing nothingsaying nothing]