hush little fool

still fluttering just near the hopeless side of frantic, counting to ten, three things i can see, two i can smell, one i can touch, deep breath, one everyone i come into contact with begins to hate me because i am a viscous stain of need coupled with a steadfast inability to reach out because why would anyone help someone as grotesque as me, something red, something soft

i am not suicidal but that does not lessen my willingness for death, just holds my hand from enacting the only release i can think of in a life spent staring at the walls as my heart rattles against the bone cage so hard i think maybe this is the end

when i started writing it was in huge dumps because i could not manage to unwind metaphor from truth so i screamed both into nonsensical jumbles and called it art so no one called the cops and had me institutionalized now i control my breathing and let the words fall by feel not by what i am feeling which cuts harder yet only i am bleeding so most of it can be taken with a desert of salt

it’s funny that i am hyperbolic nearly all the time but when i say something small like i am struggling, it means i am at the end of my rope, no pomp and circumstance, not dressed in provocative language to enunciate the true meaning

and i am struggling

i can handle these long stretches as a pariah living in silence alone but when the bad times come it leaves me no life preserver just concrete boots and a mild death wish living on the finite edge of anxiety spitting out garbage into the aether no one will see

whispering frantically to myself it will be fine before pulling into traffic to drive too fast somewhere i don’t want to be

three things i can see through the tears, two things i can whimper, nothing i can touch

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