Filters, words

i disappeared into a bottle of Nyquil i had hidden from myself yesterday

had spoken to a friend and she told me what she had been going through and it made me sad and she was so positive and i just got worse

when you hear someone else’s pain and then look at your pain like a disappointed parent, like why couldn’t you be world shattering like that pain you fucking embarrassment, you are a stubbed toe and she has an amputated heart

and i woke up and wrote shitty prose and found the green fairy and downed half a bottle because restraint and i don’t get along

and i made a list but i hate lists, find them cliche and over dramatic and if you have read my shit you know i am melodramatic enough without pretentious acroutments

just using the word acroutments showed that any extra literary devices would be overkill

I used the list poem as the filter for my coffee this morning, to distill the best of the worst into my morning coffee

as it brewed i stewed in this discontent and played some music too loud, a live ministry album i found from 1990 when the anger and drugs were in equal and copious amounts, the band and myself

been in a weird post punk thing lately so the drum machines driving and bass thumping and my blood pumping and my sadness growing and the coconut oil and korean bbq sauce sauteed the carrots and kale for breakfast and all i want to do is break something and drink some coffee

the caffeine and despair brewing in harmony , the music not harmonious, my head hurts, the carrots smell great

i need one reason to not scream today

i could taste the words in the comically oversized coffee cup, see them like alphabet soup, but darker than dark and the room smells of carrot and spice and the bowl of eggs were whisked into the same frenzy i could feel blooming in my mind, the filtered tears and colombian goodness making my heart race and head spin

ain’t no party like a pity party with spicy eggs and smug coffee and hearing a man you watched cook a fix on a spoon in front of you when you were impressionable scream about thieves and liars, i can still see the trax on his arms, not wax but tracks nonetheless

my mourning routine equals coffee, veggies with or without eggs and unlocking the door whether i plan on leaving the house for the first time in two weeks or not, i do mistress tolerates no slacking, but it is open in the hopes someone will come through and slap me silly and make it all better

then i sit in fear someone will come

then i scribble out the words that sing for sweet release

i miss the pit, nothing let’s you know you exist like three songs in a row in the circle pits, elbows and knees flying, the little bitches at the edge that are too afraid to jump in pushing and throwing errant fists if you get too close, comrades in mutual angst and self destruction, spinning and singing and punching and bleeding

in my dream i was in the pit at some shitty hardcore show back in the day, from when i was too fat to topple, too young to know better, too bruised to move the next day, to confused by the overload of testosterone and too ignorant to care, woke up stiff the covers a mess

i drank my coffee filtered through my depression, filtered through a list of fourteen reasons it is all so much bullshit, filtered through the lens of someone else’s pain, drank until my blood boiled with pent up misery of youth gone by

unlocked the door and huddled in fear it would open

a sunday without the kids means a sunday funday in the dungeon, the smell of oiled leather, the crack of the riding crop, the feeling of someone saying the things i already think, mistress in distress, unable to break me better than i break myself and she feels like she failed as she gets wetter and wetter and i just take it like a good boy

filtered the coffee through words i didn’t want to face, so i could savor the taste, the chemical trace

the mirror shows a hideous sideways glance at the after glow of sleeping juice and hungover exclamations of dread

post apocalyptic math rock influenced japanese noise blaring, shaking hand on the razor, must look presentable to be called a dog, the red stitching on the bindings

bouncing along to the musical maelstrom, seven deadly sins and seven righteous virtues playing tug of war in my bleeding brain, brandishing the razor like a crucifix against the subtle sins of five o’clock shadow

coffee and bad prose, mourning rituals and unlocked doors, come in, it’s open

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