My fingers type but answers faster than my thoughts can keep up with the sounds in my ears that are rebounding and bouncing and calling out loudly and I am trying to drown it and the bottle isn’t deep enough and yet I still try despite the yawning scar that keeps growing and yawning and depriving. And I can’t sleep and I can’t quieten it and it just grows larger and it extends through the years and it seems never-ending and forever will repeat in the hours of every day and it doesn’t want to let me go and I wish I could exorcise it out of my body just like those stretched lengths of skin that deepen every day and mar my days and will never go away as I try so hard to run away from them but they will never end and I know that I am constantly trying but I act like a grown up and yet I am a child that cries in the dark and music just soothes the whole thing in an interminable nightmare of everlasting flames of searing pain. The books on my shelf just mock me, finish me they cry out and they just yell that I can’t and they know that I am an impotent fool that cries out in the night and a child that tries harder and harder each day and interprets the birds that fly in the day time and remind us of the long gone days that will never return. Try to immortalize it by tattooing it onto your feet that have caused as much suffering as living has tried to do. Push it aside and tell it to leave you alone as there has been enough already and they can never make you feel it no matter how much they push. And Shakespeare knew that the infinity of suffering needed to be put down or it would never end, so I try to place the never-ending circle onto a page so that I may be able to leave it behind and move forward. Why repeat the mistakes of centuries of thought and idiocy and satirical bullshit that love is. My face is tight and I know that I will never be here again and that I shall have to treasure the things and the words that pour out of me right now as they are unique and never-ending in their power and yet the prowess is not there, the prowess is lost in the earthen tomb of her. Staring from the cupboard and marring it all, staring at me when I fuck. Staring at me when I try to erase the hurt and the pelvic thrum that emanates from me when I feel him on me.

Rotten as my thoughts are, she is more so. And yet more alive than my throat can ever be, more present than the lioness that cowers ready to pounce on my destiny, covered by purple flowers, that cover the tomb of this past existence.