The advancing year feels like road spikes behind and a concrete wall ahead, the spikes too close now to reverse and still salvage the tires (though the fee was paid)
The digit changed but it’s the same things making me feel shitty?
This is the year I concede
Already the emptiness feels like fuzzy cozy fullness
I hunger for nothing but sallow desperation, eating my angst to generate it anew
A fetid phoenix whose rotted wings drip with long-putrid vinegar
With acid
This year
I create a suitable husk for the dusk to come
I’ve seen it in dreams - the dense velvet lampshades consuming light like grinding wheels -
fading, fading to nothing
despite my frantic efforts
I know what seethes in the dark, what holds us hostage (and you without your shackles)
What desperately desires to claim what it almost had (tasted)
My will is deplete
I soak up the infectious sludge
to
Hasten
and leave Nothing behind, not the echo of her cries to remember, to be patient, to have faith
Faith like a ghost ship dressed as the sweetest promises you ever heard, the promises already promised to another and another
And in the end, the scales are balanced, by all accounts
All accounts but one,
That account which blandly smiles until the stories are done, storing up the tears to fill the feather dust in her pillow
The feathers never share secrets
Not even not-secret secrets, the quaking shit-monster demons which drag themselves from room to hoarded room in my bloated, empty shadow
I wrack my brain to conceive of what consequences I have birthed
And come up far from empty. And so
I will sit in the gloaming, in the strangled light cast over the reaping sown in my basest anguish
I would never tell her this, but
Measured accurately, measured objectively,
I think she was right