a galaxy full of ghost stars

everything.

ironic because everything is bigger than

what is able to be understood

i see everyone at the roots of

the world tree and

watch them drink themselves to death

craving knowledge without intention or

understanding they push forward and drown in

lies of themselves

hands pull apart a chest cavity

leaving claw marks.

the void stares back

in fractal abyss it

shudders in breath it

does not show anything

nor does it conceal

it simply is raw emptiness

karma is barbed arrows

snapping off in flesh and

hindering movement they

pull the chair out from beneath you and

watch you spiral down 

into a fullness of pain

suffering has to come with pleasure

you meet the end with regrets

and death lights your cigarettes for you

which is awfully kind and simultaneously 

ironic

as a slow end from a lifetime of smoke

still turns you into dust

and blood carbonizes into diamonds

with pressure so

feel the sky collapse and 

the vans transition stuck because

it's harder to hate the thing you don't have

and easier to be at ease knowing

the rain falls when i need it to

shotgun shells make music easier because

gunpowder cakes to teeth like oreo crumbs and

burns harder with mouthwash

bloody snaggleteeth are more ugly;

flesh and bone burn together to which

the marker of identity ends up as a smile

i wish for someone to break my jaw

watering flowers is giving thought and care

with muddy hands because the only ones that will hold

you are that of death as you are carried across the veil

i lie awake and sweat with the

burden and fear of becoming transparent

as translucency is tolerable so long as the

light never finds a path and

full opacity is for assholes

blisters only hurt if you let them so

i peel away the flesh from my heart with a paring knife and

i usually look out windows and cannot bear the light of the sun

dark skin does not burn but still hurts when stained over with rays

sneakers are laced with ropes so thick they can cause a hanging but

too thin to kill with the ability to leave burns and scars

cigarettes are a vice and they clamp down on your chest to strangle your heart so

i lean back after the lights pass and pray

how everyone has their own version of an ideal place

eden arcadia heaven

whatever you are to call it

it is a place without hardship a place where

the abundance of light drinks in overwhelming dark

to the point of its near disappearance

the wind carries ghosts cries to my ears and lips

and i swallow memories like smoke

the days stretch further like muscles tearing away

to the point where i feel aches in my body

the nightmares remain the same

manageable and terrifying as the mind often is to

which i ask myself

it sits under nail beds and teeth taste

like fucking iron

i wash them in bleach hot water

holy water is a cure and yet

why have the spirits decided to leave

warriors are

nameless.

those who serve a cause

strip themselves of identity in

place of rusting steel

thankless jobs in search of

a path towards light

do you define the world by

it's darkness as absence of light

or it's light as darkness' absence

this tells the truth all it

needs to know about you so

face it with a smile and

pray it doesn't smile back

i trace whirlpools into

my skin and watch an ocean

leak crimson

but draining ink from flesh

only stains hands and paper it

impacts no one

shed tears for the worms

and fill their homes with

consecrated water

blisters keep you as

anything but soft so split the

skin and hope they return

in the cracked reflections

i find myself lying

arms outstretched in

lieu of the arms of another

we are nothing but masses of blood and flesh

and i trace red paint o'er myself

the corpus is a palette knuckles are brushes and

canvases leak what their makers force upon them

the world seeks to chase and

define itself in technicalities

pull needles through teeth and

make sure those roots are safe

lilacs are toxic and you have romanticized

the taste of poison before it

has even caressed your lips

the floor is cold and i peel open my

ribcage to lie in silence

ghosts puppet my hands

they exhume identity to identify

a tenderness of meat and swing

the hammer with an abandon unable to

be recreated nor imitated

heated mercury fuses flesh to bone so

i refill my flask with charred steel

as guilt determines a path with

horseshoes of anger

hollowness does not bend or break

the neck of your god

trace ink through veins

and stain eyebags with

coffee grounds because if you

dip your hands into the

dark.

you might never get them back

if you get force-fed poison

your whole life you

cannot discern the taste of anything

over blood so the burns

trace my mouth and

i cannot deign to spill

acid into something unscathed

there is a good

reason

that heartbreak is

quiet in nature

when you are not

more than just a

youngin

they tell you

of importance and esteem that

your dreams will bear fruit in which

the seeds will sustain your legacy

if being forgetful is

your curse then allow amnesia to

sustain your bones

just remember to oversalt your food

to stave of ghosts n ghouls

i let cigarettes burn down

to my fingertips and

my skin drinks in the ashes

so when prometheus kneels

i cradle his head before swinging

soup n baileys; im breaking

i cradle knives and

caress razor blades into my

skin and feel it split open

filled with

what these humans call

feeling.

if you drown who you were supposed to

be and illuminate

anyone but you

in your stead you will see

that all that is

is bones and flesh that would

not satiate a starving mutt

does the axe feel fulfilled as it cleaves wood or necks?

does the flower serve to be or be loved?

there are monsters in the world

and driving purpose will make you miserable

i think i am miserable.

if sacrifice feeds atonement

then guilt be damned

death can have me when

i can no longer be a blunted instrument of

horrors in death and

the awareness of self-futility is chilling

the cold embrace is the kindest gift for

anyone and

yet i cannot afford gifts for myself

voiding anything warm for

the empty the dark the

reflection i crash through the mirror

and cannot bring myself to

slit her throat i

let her take me farther and further

so i can be held down in the river and

i feel my muscles strain and pull as an

imaginary rapier flashes forward

an eye is pierced through and then the chest

i bury my blade deep into the heart of the shadows in front of me

they wrap cloaked hands around it and trace through my skin with

their inky blood

ichor crawls its way down my cheeks and

the hollowness in my eye deepens with starspun sorrow

i choke.

i fall into the shadows my shadows they

drag behind me and i carry their weight

and in a brief moment of exulanasis i

collapse under the weight of myself

i am a black hole.

anything wanting to be safe should stay away. i draw things in with immense immeasurable gravity and yet things cannot escape

i force things away from me. people, mostly.

they cannot makes themselves break the event horizon so i push them out

i resign myself to the hollowness of a ghost stars revenance

i wake up in a cold sweat and tear open my ribcage in fervor

i lock the black hole behind my heart and push reflective starlight into empty sockets

they say

growing pains are weeds

stifle and choke them like

smog over cities and yet they

infest a heart with roots tendrils

so drawn and deep

be careful child.

there be monsters in the woods.

the best way to describe how

i dont fit into others' lives is

how i sit outside their doors and

dont expect to be let in

and when you get older

go find what

makes the bumps in the night

barbs stick to the flesh even

when removed so leave them

to soak the wound with

cold steel and rust

that lingers under stitches

you will learn that

those things so

alien so inhuman so

close to you

when a shadow fills itself

with the approximation of

yourself are you

not the shadow which has been

pretending to be alive

this whole time?

to what you are

and then you become a monster

haunting the woods

breaking branches and

devouring reflection with

pained heartache of losing what you could have

been

a monster something unfathomable and

as i draw closer i

bring forward the light and see

my face reflected back

we are all thinking machines

with feelings

and yet in our programming we

want to be loved and held

the caution light hasnt stopped flashing

so i push my foot to the floor

as mechanically reproducing

breath gets harder and harder

with each passing day

when people say

dont be a stranger

if means nothing because

a stranger is whom you

do not know

and i am

unknown

you carry emotions in

your chest and they fill your lungs so

i will simply asphyxiate

under the weight of myself

until i fall 6 feet.

as no one can drop you further

if there is

no one to

a viscosity it clings to

the inside of the throat and

wrings it's hands round

necks it stifles

anger sits and i

was never something worth

bleeding over so

it parks itself in my

hands and i pull tendons

through their resonance

tugging and drawing i

look out the window

last time ill see the sun

vengeance is dangerous

hooks n talons it pulls eyes from

sight and leaves you drunk with

want

regret clings like sharp cologne

it gets worn like faded jeans and

manifests in hollowed out late

nights

when the gatekeeper asks

are you happy?

and marked hands suck teeth and

shake heads it opens the floor

it swallows you whole

ejected into a cosmic vacuum everything

is insignificant and you were simply just

more insignificant than most an

unholy mistake where idle minds and

exchanged bottles birthed a creature so

far beyond what constitutes mortality

can only deserve a fate worse than

the grace of death under the

pale moonlight

to be unmade is

to finally become

whole.

with fire to strip the

ego from the soul

and acid to smoke

burns holes through

identity

claws cradle you in

their hands

tenderly gently why

would something so grand so

immense immeasurable

care?

you are just a speck

a pinprick in the

grand story a dot of

ink empty and blackened

with soul what

soul it's so cold; cold and bright

charred beyond belief

unmaking you is the

kindest thing that could ever

happen

writing to me is like

breathing

and i think it

would be nice if something were to

crush my windpipe or break my

hands because then

i wouldnt be able to do either

as in the darkness i would be

filled with shadows to

finally.

that was alive yesterday

is always killed in slumber and

i awake reborn every day

the usefulness of whom i

was before is outweighed by

shadows of reflections dragging me further and

further down in each passing moment

in this exact instant i

think if someone held me down and

caved my skull inwards with a brick

leaving me slumped over in a pile of

shattered blood and powdered bones i

would weep with elation

and in simultaneity if i were

held in the loving arms of another

the result would be the same

except i would not feel

anything

to be tired of oneself is

to be tired of life is

to be in lieu of preparation for the river is

to be hollowed out and empty on the floor is

to be broken beyond the hands of god

god.

i wish i were made whole

and yet here i lie

stretched through and thin

etched and scraped; bound by

poisoned skin laced with

corroded scars

stars they are so

bright but seen with such

darkness they are soaked up

and spat out with cosmic fire

and yet i cradle their ghosts

knowing that in passing onwards

that light can still be seen

it slips through my fingers and falls to the

ground it coats my teeth and stains

my lips i am slicked over in the

ashen residue of something worth much

much more and yet

remain slumped in the bottom of

the well

demise ticks closer as

the tides draw inwards so

i trace my name on the sand

and watch it get taken

as the shifting seas consume

all

i carve away as much as i can

pound of flesh by pound of

flesh it is sickly sweet and

corroded traces of ink

too much ink

it stains my gums

black.

i run the water as

hot as it can be

so hot it feels like

the sun cracks through the rivulets in your

hands and

wipe my face

i look into the reflection

nothing stares back

as only things with worth

can shape the world and

cast shadows refract light into reflections

i turn the water off

and watch exhaustion seep away

i run the water and

find the exhaustion sticking to me

i strike a match and

swallow it

hoping the light will find itself

full and alive

knowing it will jettison

i will jettison

praying for an event horizon

are hidden beneath gloves

masquerading with grace with

elegance to which

they are unseen and

laced with poison with

dirt under the fingernails and

scabs lining the palms

calluses burn through the flesh as

split knuckles split lips but

but they are left under gloves

i wash my hands

too frequently i wash them with

water hotter than the beds of

phlegethon and

scrape away the skin from my palms i

scratch and pull with teeth as

there is an itch an

uncontrollable urge to itch the skin

underneath the muscle with sharp things i

have sharpened teeth and every time they are

rendered dull they grow back i bite through the

restraints and peel the fetters marks from my

wrists i keep my arms tucked my sleeves long

as to be rendered vulnerable is to show my

scars and pockmarked skin to the world to

someone else to anyone else i

cannot bear having another live with

the burden of seeing my burdens made

manifest and as i continuously pull stitches through

mottled skin i choke on my breath and trace

blood into the mirror because i want to be

perfect i cannot will not i

leak imperfections with brutality it oozes and

seeps from my pores and as i wipe this mirror clean i

pull gloves onto my hands

as the hands of a lady should

themselves adorning my skin as

laced through with lyes so

when ichor seeps off knuckles

it tastes as though something is not

right which would be accurate as

to be perfect is aimed true aimed

straight as an arrow and i have found myself

slumped over laden with arrows i cannot bring myself

to get up and yet

and yet

and

yet

yet

inevitably i will find myself in the

middle

of the field

soaked through and drowned in viscera

my own and not and not my own but i am so

small yet the burdens are so heavy to which i

now lie

awake in the twilight

basking in the irridescent violence of

the moon which only is a reflection of the sun's

grace

stripping skin away with a paring knife to

rinse fibres for unholy atonement and yet

yet

i happen to look up

inhaling the crisp grit of ash and blackened snow

only to be reminded of