my bones fuckin hurt

just another tuesday, bitch!

(06.11.2026)

its not like i have the energy to — hearing people laugh over tinny mics and headphones, and i don’t say a thing. and then i try something, and then i don’t, and get this: i was right! i didn’t matter. anything i said, it didn’t matter. not to you, not to any of you. don’t patronize me — i’m just not able to believe you, right now. your words are hollow noise, and i’m tired anyway.

the storm knocks the power for a minute or two; the winds take me away.

no one looks.

its hard to keep track of the days — they are counted in fits of sleep and waking, glimpses of memories i can never really hold. today is- today-

there will be another today, but for now it is called tomorrow: a frayed string of infinite outcomes solidifying as it passes through perception, calcifies into the regrettable yesterday. these things, they all mean the same thing, at different points, so much that an acorn is the oak all at once.

i used to be smart, or so i like to think. i used to write, and sometimes, people would say kind things about it, and i would continue. simple as a skinner rat. but now? less so that it has gone, but more so that there is no more action, no momentum, no preserving. a rat without a scientist withers and atrophies. the piano collects dust. no one comes to listen, and there is nothing but the limbo of an unceasing intermission.

it stretches and it doesn’t, because nothing is nothing, unproducable, uneventful. nothing marks the time, actions produce noiseless struggle, then surrender. and when it is over, the slate will be wiped clean, as if it never existed.

you’ve already lost so much time, haven’t you?

yippee.

my mother calls it psychosomatic, and i think her right (of course i do, what use is voicing dissent?). there is nothing the doctor’s have found wrong with me, though biopsy. perhaps they will find it through autopsy, though at that point, i’ll never know.

it is uncharted, unwritten, no evidence to point or witness valid enough. my stomach upturns itself, my body fails me, and yet, it will not kill me. i always find that the last cruelty of living: they will not kill me themselves.

only leave me to wait or to do it myself.

(i can only wait.)

(the temptation is futile. my future is forfeit to their whims.)

i am tired.

aha, of course, you’re right: i’m always dramatic, aren’t i? it doesn’t really matter the reasoning as long as i do or don’t, yeah? in that way, you don’t really care how i’m doing.

you just care that i’m there, and that’s enough for you.

(what am i, a prop?)

i’m taking this, in part, as permission, though they don’t know that, and likely never will. and still i wonder what their chatter sounds like, what it would be like to laugh with them— were not my body a failure, convulsing at joys and sorrows alike. i remind myself; i would not have liked it anyway.

there is no point in wanting something you can’t have. less in what doesn’t exist.

summer makes it warm, makes the air sweet; the grasses are tall and the flowers are kind. the sky is so, so blue. the songs sound prettier on this warm air.

the funeral is unattended; no one stops and no one waits, because there is no one to mourn. in my dreams, i do not exist — not to them. and the way i exist is painless and joyful, unending summers and song and dancing. this is the compromise: something empty, echoing. no one will come.

no one will know that i am missing.

the lights flicker, sometimes they spark when i try to turn them on and my fingers are burnt by the shower of sparks. the floors groan and creek, empty with fungal rot and termites. but it is warm, at least when i bundle my blankets about me, when i wrap myself up enough to stop the trembling.

the world is beautiful outside — or so i assume, some white plane of white across the windows, some prize beyond the locked doors. i dream of blue skies and the sound of laughter, the warmth and chatter of a party i am uninvited to— when i press my ear to the door, i think i can hear it. the wind would smell so sweet, and the sky would stretch on forever, and i want.

but once you leave the house, you cannot return, and how could i leave them? the brush of my cat’s fur, the sound of family beyond the doors. there’s much to do before i can rest upon grassy hills — so much they have asked of me. sweet things, tethering things. ‘stay’, they say.

my eyes are still drawn to the window.

the walls are rotting; there is a putrid smell i cannot place; the house sickens me and i cannot serve it and still i cannot leave. the doors are locked and i have hardly any strength to stand at all.

this too, is work. my hands are numb. i curl at the base of the front door, and wish.

it is never granted.

the daytime shows go on and on, exhausting and pulling muscles, noise to prove life, the clicking to cogs to sound that everything is in working order. the sun and its spotlight is its own type of boon, bright enough to burn at the edges, consuming enough the performance to forget what else it is like to be.

and then, the night:

it falls, it claims, and here, no one looks. the strings and ties fray and fall apart just as i always knew they would, just as i felt them in the sun. in pieces, in silence, there is room to dream between the folds of velvet curtain and the nonsense of nonbeing. here alone does it pull and thrash, if only because this is the only time i can greet it, palms cupped in aching dark. but nothing is real here, pulled between and now lost in gravity; what are you if not the pressure that contains you? what happens when there is only space to dissolve?

“i’m sorry for being alive”

tonight, the worms take the form of plush blankets and pillows; tonight they are kind and soft and allow me rest: i play pretend. i have since i was a child and it is always this:

quiet, unmoving, unseeing. the crush of dirt, the hum of a monitor. i no longer seek hospitals or doctors or care. they have proved futile; the worms will grant me release instead.

they will taste the heaviness through the gullet, collect my stories and dreams from the fat of grey matter, find evidence of love and play in my muscle fibers. when they reach the sticky film of the lungs, they will find laughter. all these dreams die with me; every story untold.

and so do i wish for it.

but today there are blankets, and i imagine the company of worms.

is there something to be said about quitting while you’re ahead?

please id like to not be in pain

idk why im pain

just

stop

(06.01.2026)