i seem to always be looking for something to peel me open like a clementine. crack my skull into two halves like a coconut, and conduct a thorough, well planned out study of my brain. it's not like i had any plans to put myself out there, but it'd be nice if someone at least tried.
i don't think i'd actually let them do it, though. if i did, there would be nothing left of me. my sense of self would amputate off of me as if sliced off by a modern day guillotine. a human hair tourniquet wrapped around where my body merges in with my thoughts. it's a clean cut and i'm bleeding out now, but i say i don't mind. it's okay. come in, but wipe your feet at the door. sorry, i just don't get many visitors. this is not a path well taken. don't trample the weeds, they have feelings, too. make yourself at home. please don't leave.
each time i die, I'm killed, and i'm reborn as someone new. i'm still me, but there's more iron in my blood and less cotton candy in my mouth. there's always been more stars in the sky than in me, but now my eyes are computer-screen-blank and when i speak, the only thing that comes out of my mouth is the sound of a cursor blinking.
blinking.
blinking.
but it's okay.
the weeds are still alive. and i don't like clementines much, anyways.
