when I write, I cast a line for God.

God would not give me all of this hope to choke on.
my death anxiety has stilled because every time death is mentioned I do not believe it’s real.
death will not come for me.
not in the way it comes for everyone else.
God will reveal the truth to me and finally, finally, I will understand how my joints fit into one another and how it is not cruel for God to flush the population of the planet down His toilet bowl.
there is nothing here that will tell me the truth.
God, God, God, one day God will stop the overflow of deceit by omission.
tell me. tell me, God!
tell me.
tell me why you boil me until my flesh is tender but do not consume me.
tell me why you pump fog into my skull until I am too tired to move.
tell me why you demand I follow you when you are nowhere in sight.
damn it. damn it. damn it.
how do I know the difference between my fear and your concern?
take it away. take it away. please, God.
take my fear away before I die.


There is nothing to do but wait.

I think of my grandparents as still alive. How could I think of them as anything else? How could they not be somewhere parallel to me? Where are they, that could be unreachable? Is this God’s plan for us? Live side by side until one timeline breaks and falls away to he-knows-where-but-I-do-not? Is Papa safe? Is Grandpa George safe? Does suicide take you to the seventh layer of hell? Does hell exist? I think there’s something very wrong about all of this. There is nobody to ask. There is nobody who has gone and come back. The only ones to ask are the unbroken. The dead know now what my body squirms daily to discover. I could have asked them in life but they did not know, not then. Only now. This is unfixable. Unknowable. Putrid, obscene ignorance that sticks in my flesh like shame. It feels like a sin, gathers together suddenly in waves of pure, destitute panic. It’s strange, the way the vulnerability in desperation can sometimes feel akin to an orgasm. My mind lurches to fill its empty spaces and finds no information with which to do so. Nature is infallible because she doesn’t pretend to be kind. God, however. God allows my suffering and still proclaims he is kind.


Spreading your fingers out flat against the table. Friction stopping your soul from falling backwards out of your body and into the maw of hell.

Reality twisting. But what is reality? It’s shifting. This isn’t the truth. God is withholding the truth. This is a simulation test. Soon, the world will turn into focus and you will face judgment.

You love drinking because alcohol is glue and it slaps your halves together.


Is it your instincts that lie to you? Or your insecurity? Or reality itself? Stop thinking about reality. It doesn’t matter what’s real.

When you imagine having conversations, your words flow freely alongside the current of your thoughts. But when you really speak, time freezes like a Tomb Raider quicktime action, only you aren’t allowed to think because everyone is yelling at you to be clever and by everyone I mean you. You hold reality in your hand. That’s a lot of responsibility. And you can’t even keep up with a conversation.

Your instincts are your compass and your compass is broken and there’s no way, there’s absolutely no way, that everyone else feels this incredible sense of urgency.

Aching self hatred.

Stop fucking obsessing. You pathetic fucking worm.

You know if you could stalk people and get away with it, you would. You tell yourself you’re just fascinated by people. I’m sure that’s true. I’m sure it’s normal to fantasize about someone you’ve known for one week. I’m sure that’s normal.

You can’t even fucking kill yourself. Because you’re so afraid of death.

no image is disgusting enough to describe me

in my head, everything out of my mouth is clumsy.

every tremor calls out insecurity, and I think that my arms should be
superglued together behind my back
to reduce the pathetic radiance of my body.

I’ve had images before
of carving out the ridges of my skin
with a knife
dig past pores filled with puss and blood dripping from my pimples
to reach whatever lies beneath that is worthy
of a hand caressing my cheek.
I have considered the fat encasing my muscles
broiling and bubbling and oozing out of my pores
and I have wondered if it were possible
to bash my spine against a wall until it stood straight
between my bones.

I’ve hoped I could keep silent for the rest of my life
so no one would hear the 12-year-old-boy pitch of my trying-too-hard voice.
nothing I could say to anyone is important enough
to haunt them with this sound.

these things are ridiculous, these wishes
to become numb from my fingertips in
or to press my body down into the dirt until I
am enveloped by the earth.

I don’t know if I am
obsessed with myself, or if
I loathe myself.
I guess it’s both.

should I speak until
I don’t want to rip my chest open with my fingernails
just because a social interaction did not go as planned?
or should I never speak again?

I wonder if I could ever accept myself
or if that would be overlooking the truth of what a worm I am,
what a pathetic fucking ragged dog I am,
if when I feel confident it’s only subconscious ignorance of my disgrace.

I am insane.
I am writhing and ugly and out of my mind.