The suicidal part is unrelenting. Unrelenting with how desperately it wants to protect you.
When anguish is at my feet, splayed on the pavement... It's reminiscent of a chance at redemption. Anguish is a cadaverous man. As he lies in the rain, the raindrops pool in the hollows of his abdomen.
Is he anguish or the anguished, what is agony's true form? Is it elusive? Tantalizing? Is it different for everyone? That makes idiosyncrasies implicit. So, would they be valid? Or full of simulacrums? Does agony torment those who decipher it misleadingly? Is it a trickster, a tester, a god?—Questions might arise when you assay agony from a distance. But is that even possible, because it seems one is only cognisant of agony when they are faced with its unabated peril. Or, faced with the tender, dismal, comforting screen it lets you wallow in... Lying on the concrete stoop of a building, beneath a sordid umbrella that seems to be soaking in your stead until it's not. There are so many things that are not possible, so many things that render one helplessly hopeless. And that belief; of defeat and no existence beyond reality and corporeality, is a fluorescent middle ground for agony.
After agony pulls me in... I see that my being is reaved. My pith, my marrow, it's all ravaged. Fore-and-aft. I'm left. A flashing shutter. Withering apparition. Hapless desperado.
Now, when push comes to shove, instead of giving the man at my shoes warmth, I eviscerate him and dive to writhe inside.
I'm so wrong and so hurt. I'm so sorry, I couldn't see that it'd hurt you. I thought it'd help me.
"What will it take for you to know what's right, when you've spent time searing your flesh to the gut every time you were derelict in righteousness?"
Affliction, now I'm sick of you. Don't scrunch my shirt and wipe my face. Blood-wet, I'll lie on this floor, accompanied by the mites that live on my skin. Dismiss my catastrophe. I want my liveliness to be inconsequential to you. I swear I want myself to turn into swept aside dust in your eyes.
Still, afflicted. Compulsively. Gulping. Apprehensive.
Crying. "Why... I don't know if I'm right."
Ministry says, "It's a byproduct of deliberate actions against the welfare of the mind. It's not substantive and it's violent!"
The suicidal part is a person. The frame they reside in is the sky, and it's rinsed with black ink. Their form is scratched out with a pen. They're leaning back, off to the side, sitting on an armchair. Subdued countenance, eyes downcast, they're riveted by something beneath the floor that only they can see.
The leitmotif of salvation, is their adamant concern. Nobody else's—at least, not right now. Everybody else is so superficial.
And if you ask them, "What are you looking at?" they'll mutter, "Nothing." I chose to not trust them. Though I probably don't know better.
They're only interested in one thing; they would gnaw through acres to save you from misery. For you, a foreboding most faithful, loyal. They'll look up when they want to ask, "Are you ready?" They say, "Come to me. Blend with me. I will save your life."
You feel beguiled, by all their disassociating and concurrent latent ascendancy. But after a minute too long of staring with intent, somehow, you slowly know them. You slowly love them. You know that you do not want to leave them alone. You feel they're not made to be left alone.
You want them to come around, so you try, "I see you, I hear you, I appreciate you, I am here for you, and I do need you. But you have to understand that what you want for me, I cannot do. You need to let me do this in a way that doesn't hurt anything."
They cover their ears with their arms, and curl their head all the way down between their legs to further shield their ears. "Stop it, now. You have to shut up."
To my anguish, there are humans inside of the mind. Disembodied, extended, fragmented, seeking respite, forlorn humans. I cannot disavow humanity.
Life is paining.
