And They Love You

Finger on the Trigger (Stick to Your Guns)

I am freezing to death in this tundra of a bed and I am high enough to believe that is a literal statement. Today was taxing. Yesterday was taxing. I wish I was hideously rich enough to get a fuckin uhhhhhhh tax break. 

Someone I love once told me that I hold people to impossible standards. Maybe that's true. It's not in the way where I expect perfection from them in any facet of their daily lives. It's nothing so obvious. But I always find myself asking why the people I love don't exhibit their love for me in the ways I exhibit my love for them. (See "why don't they love me" "I would never do that to them," and other classic hits at my upcoming gallary exhibit). 

Sometimes I feel like a real monster. Not just, like, the World's Biggest Cunt, but also an actual, inhuman monster. I read once that people who commit horrid crimes tend to think that way. Though I'm not sure if me latching onto that piece of information and applying it to myself was a smart and self-aware move or just a product of the first sentence's claim. I can always sniff out any evidence necessary to support my self-hatred based delusions.

I am sedated. In through the mouth of the pipe

(or through the lips of the syringe, shot via air dart into my haunches)

and out through my parted, rounding lips.

(they curl back to reveal the wet stains on my jagged, wretched fangs)

I think I can lay my head down now. 

(my eyes close far too late. I always draw blood.)

Thats not a poem, so much as an attempt at giving a script to each moment of my inner monologue in the times where I'm accompanied by a distortion. 

I was angry today. I was hurt. I can't think of it beyond that now. I am high enough to believe that this tundra bed could be as good a place as any, right now, to lick my wounds until they taste like human skin again.