a galaxy full of ghost stars

and the universe's center is a krispy kreme

(i do not like krispy kreme)

then how has wonder led the dead horse to the desert

when standing in the tides to watch them roll back one realizes their futility before the waves feed

getting stabbed hurts, regardless of the location. preference in where is what determines the character of a person

i talk to crows and orchids; they hear but im not sure they listen. the water does all of that and at the same time forces breath from your lungs because inane spoutings are trivial

hot oil leaves burns and scars that the eye often misses to the point where skin mottles indistinguishable from healed and marred; drinking it allows one to divine wisdom of the end

sleep is the cousin of death and yet i find both to be the opposite of how they are expected. death seems cold and kind the same inverted way sleep is angry and fitful. cleaning tombstones is not for charity nor entrance to the gates but to keep one centered. the ghosts tell me their stories and i burn incense and tobacco for them.

cigarettes are getting expensive and tobacco moreso to where spirits are trapped before crossing the river

it corrodes and bends the will of the world as steel tips and sways with the cold cracking of frost

anger's saint jerome spoke to me in the form of fire. it did not burn my hand or chest but sealed up cuts for healing. why heal what is broken i asked to which he responded; anger can heal wounds but not clean them. infections borne of rage cloud the mind and fuel me. i pushed my hands into his ribcage and pulled.

fireworks are dampened in rain to where torrents and wind dampen the spark of existence and i find myself at the bottom of a well, floating in a bucket to the surface

dangerous things lurk in the dark and you must be careful. stray not from the path my childe or teeth will find themself sunken into your neck with intentions of claiming flesh for bones

menthol cigarettes cool scarred lungs and tobacco wilts and burns to let those beyond the veil taste ones soul; to quantify ones soul is to force self-actualization in reflection of one's place in the world and monsters purposefully sink as low as possible to fertilize the soil

ghosts wrap tendrils around hands and hearts to stay connected so scissors and barbs keep them away they happen to keep the living away and if the living stay away the world becomes ever so quiet just quiet enough to see death sitting beside you, who offers you a smoke.

werewolves describe a forced relationship away from ones body well. it's blatantly obvious and to not embrace the grotesque and bone-chilling is weakness brought upon by a forced inability to understand. the water seeks to listen and hear as the earth shelters thought. the wind carries voice as flame passes wisdom beyond into the mind. ice does not understand and lightning seeks to force itself upon its victims.

i cannot see my own reflection or hear myself so am i already not declared dead?

there's a poetic irony to having people not respond to you being called 'ghosting' when all you happen to be is a ghost haunting the lives of those around you

people celebrate the sobriety of others so when i find myself tossing razors into a grave no wonder the wind is the only one seeming to keep me company

stitches hurt more on secret but alleviate more worries in which spilling more blood lets others rest easier

melanin makes it harder to see bruises and eye bags so invalidate those darker than you as the world can never be harder than on one who watches others suffer

i am not lucky. i often make bad decisions in order to hurt myself with the self awareness of self-inflicted pain. 

twisting the knife with the same hands that plunged it into flesh allow it to cause life or death by consequences of self without the implications of others. 

i am not happy. an absence of happiness does not equal misery. the constant thrumming in my head is what causes misery and i believe a lobotomy would solve it. or perhaps a punch to the face hard enough to shatter bone. 

mistakes can be amended with moments of clarity and dunking ones head into the world trees runoff will impart wisdom that can otherwise be gleaned by drinking the blood of ones who love you. sewing needles make for good stitches and cauterizing and there is no one to hold up lights or mirrors. 

i overhaul myself in the dark. it causes extras burns and nicks but those are washed away in memory before i drown in endorphins and adrenaline.

those obsessed with greatness seem to forget that the mountaintop is always just out of reach and in addition to this, the top is cold and lonely. easy to freeze and easy to fall. i dig the hole deeper, further than 6 feet because if i close my eyes i would hope it to be forever as opposed to these stints in walking nightmares with sanity just out of reach to which i let the water take me in hopes of washing me away with the ghostly stars of the abyss. 

benches are cold and so am i. there is no place for one to warm up as the isolating cold bites through any layers and people are not of want to keep knives in this economy. 

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

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