Dissociation.

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.

Doubt.

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.

Who did this to you?

bad feelings

looking forward to something for a week and realizing while it’s happening that it’s not as good as you thought it would be and feeling disappointment and guilt because you expected too much and guilt because you’re ungrateful that the world doesn’t add up to what you thought it would be and anger because you’re so unable to process the world as it revolves around you and everything feels like it’s already a reflection and a memory and nothing happens in the present, everything is just the past and every single moment is overlooked

Blasphemy

I do not think I have ever belonged to someone so completely and unmistakably. You–you dissect my body, dig through me as though you are reaching into my life and renewing the fire of the ashes of my cremation. I am gripping your shoulders because I want to meld my skin to yours, and your hands burn something between my thighs… your black handprint, searing your mark of hell into an innocent place, and you should not be here, you are a demon and you are dragging me into the pit. No… not now — now my concept of God is shoved to the foot of the bed to make room for our pleasure, in the pages of a book I used to love. In my tremor beneath you, I watch that book — it is only a book, right now, only some long-forgotten concept, and good riddance. The blasphemy inside me doesn’t matter here. Your skin matters here, your body that I wish would travel through my own and into my spine and then into my intangibility — oh, but you are also tangible, and that is also good. Our rhythm matters here.