ooo | Family Tree?

           I don’t think I’m meant to have a family but before you think this is melodrama stemming from a fight with my father just hear me out, I have some foundation to my claim.

           I’ll leave out the childhood abuse and abandonment, that’s a cheap shot to my theory and pointless if I’m saying she’s not my family—and she’s not. Despite my family being filled with drugs, rapists, molesters, incest, pedophilia, what else could you imagine, place that here, I’m sure it belongs too. Anyway, the point is that as I stem away from the Little Shop of Whorrors, other families hate me too.

           So why does the prospect of eating amongst others put me on edge and make me want to kill everyone in sight? Annihilation—it’s just something I don’t understand about myself. Logically, sure, it’s sound. Theoretically, well I’m not even sure what I mean here. I wish the application of this vice weren’t seen as such and though it’s not a virtue I wish it were recognized as something similar to what it actually is. As if.

           I also wonder if other people have normal families. I wonder if people have moms. I wonder if people can be around their family and feel safe, safest even. I wonder if that’s possible.

ooo | Survives the Martyr

“The disgust with dirt can be so great that it keeps us from cleaning ourselves—from ‘justifying’ ourselves.”

  I'm waiting and wondering what’s going to happen.

  How will this show in the breakdown (break-down?) of my life’s events?

  Who was afraid before their martyrdom?

  Who boldly faced it without opposition but with recognition?

  Christ may be the original martyr, the celebrity, the Celebritarian. I’ll sell out too, but I’m only dying for what I believe in. I’m not sure where I belong but it doesn't matter. I become the home I am housed within.

oo | A Spin of the Week's Weak Wheel

To a day of the spectrum,

  The thing is is that I loved you, perhaps not on my knees or with my shoulders back and my gooseneck vulnerable to your penetrating scythe, but I still loved you. I loved you more than I love the few I love most. We had history we’ll forever recall. You kissed me and I swear to the God who doesn’t love you that two worlds collided and you know the Earth was originally seven times smaller than what we stride to perfection upon.

  Now we exist without unison, creating a crater filled with constructs of disaster.

  What I want you to know and anyone else who can detect my passion for us is that I love you in the sense we both understood dichotomously. With you I’m in my mind, without you I’m out of it—now I hope you see how much you mean(t) to me.

— The Uncaring

ooo | Everyone Smiles with that Invisible Gun to Their Head & I just Don't Want to Die without A Few Scars

          Little days spent doing erratic things of today’s nature satisfy me to no end, I wish I knew why or how or when bloodprints translate into sex and is roughed up into ecstatic uranius bliss but I wish I knew a lot of things I didn’t ever never will know, like who the fuck killed Kennedy and who the fuck George Orwell was really talking about in newspeak, & for that I suppose I’m doubleplusgood but wait—

          Now the goverment tells me I’m doubleplusungood.

ooo | Detach, Desecrate, Devour

   & you were funny enough to trust me with a bottle filled with beautiful white comas of dreaming of snowy suicides

   & what's the point in living if no one knows you love them

   & no I'm not all the way dead yet but let's just say the clock is ticking

          So when you’ve reached the point of wanting to cry over everything you’ve lost out on from an experience to a friend you loved or something deserving of your care

          Then tossing away all of that care only to push harder faster stronger towards a brighter future of perceptional purposeful perfection —

                                  You're in areté. 

          Or

an undefined unrecognized placement of the prior

          VOID of your incredulous credibility, spire.

oo | Madre

          To keep myself from killing you—that is why I paint in my own blood, that is why the room is spinning and my hands are soaked in everything red. I’m not trying to be a martyr because I’m only trying to survive what you did to me, I actually wanted to be alive before you showed me what death was like.