sonnet pour un cyclope

the painted skull of an unidentifiable animal glares at me, the withered roses behind it grinning; taunting. a colourful example in black and white, of death and inevitableness. it matches the paracetamol on my bed, matches the tiny glowing screen beside them. monochrome dreams. the bottle in my wardrobe isnt empty but its old, black mold growing on festered bitterness. the only colour is what runs in the veins of the creatures living in every shadow, every letter, every corner. its dripping down their jaw. red, red, red.

we're ruining each other in a language neither of us understands; moving around the topic of loneliness; moving around each other.

her eyes got bleaker. she became calmer.

i dreamt of a girl in my bed and a parakeet in a cage above it. it used to be empty, but my mother wanted to rescue the parakeet (it had a broken neck). she loved it. i said that it only might survive, and she laughed and then we slept. something smelled like cigarettes. another night and shes there again. shes crying and asks me where the parakeet went. the cage is empty. my head isnt with me. she call me heartless. she claims that i told her it would survive, and she starts sobbing into her hands like i betrayed her. i told her i said it might. i couldnt smell any cigarettes.

her hair is long and wavy and her smile is small and reminds me of something sad. its like she doesnt want to smile, or maybe she just isnt happy enough. i cant make her happy enough. her eyes are like a dream, her freckles like something so incredibly beautiful; she doesnt like herself, she tells me. i want to scream to the stars that she is, shes worth the world, and i think i gladly would give it to her. i dont, though. my mouth is glued together when shes around. her voice is comforting, and she smiles back at me. i know when shes around, her presence is suffocating me, like a perfume. i think, Oh, and my cheeks flush. shes the most gorgeous person i know.

care about me!, mother earth screams. her hands are tied back by the people who ignore her. she cant do it herself. help me! she yells at the top of her lungs. the people who listen arent enough to set her free. im dying., she whispers. no one listen carefully enough to hear.

oh all those star ridden skies you told me to think of you and ever since that day i wish that i will die

let them cut me open with their sharpened teeth and take a bite out of my decaying body. let them eat my fucking heart, let them drink my damned blood, the golden ichor. they pretend to be tender, an act for the foolish eye. rage fills whats left of me. its not enough to survive.

i feel like black coffee and rain, like dying every time i realize im alive. id say im at the end of my rope and fuck me, it feels like it. im tired. ive been tired for a really really long time, but i havent felt like this since seventh goddamn grade. id say the world is fucking cruel, and i cant believe when people say their childhood didnt consist of dying inside and being terrified twenty-four seven.

a violent knee jerk reaction, kicking hitting, fighting to survive in the form of ruining myself and everyone around me. unfortunately i was born but i didnt choose it, and my free will has always mattered a lot to me, or at least i claim it does perhaps i just want to feel alive or at least like im not dying every secound of every goddamn day

cremated bodies are walking around whispering about death and the sweetness of not having a brain to think with. i am not afraid of myself, but i am afraid you will become one of them. but you dont seem to care much for me or for life after dying, just for not thinking about anything. you told the doctor to pull the plug to life support and your brain got removed and put into a bin with the rest of your entrails just like you wanted.