Hi, I’m not enough, what’s your name? When you realize what you were doing was trying to project magical qualities onto someone that totally do not exist. You, you beautiful thin distraction with most forms of intellectually stimulating media and I spend moments alone and the quiet terror of being alive is growing louder and louder.
Two black holes silently and violently orbiting around each other, trying to get drunk every night to block out this consciousness that which feels like rodents in my day dreams, trying to block out the error of our romanticized fantasies.
I am enjoying the unreplied texts to death, I’m ghosted by death itself. Now it doesn’t even matter when humans ghost me. My inner demons are already tired of my inner monologue.
Our affair is so empty even the void is jealous of us. We definitely should perceive other realities. But nothing tastes as good as this void. Cosmic aloneness, my main bitch. We fucked reality and married fantasy. Taking walks on the beach, drinking coffee and imagining situations that cannot happen. I got something for you this valentine’s, disappointment. I don’t think you’ll feel it though…you know, with the lack of expectations and all.
Please deny my existence. Before that let’s go eat off the bare earth the delirium from which we were born. Like out of all the abysses in all the land, you had to stare into mine.
Not tonight love, I have to spiral into uncontrollable anxiety. Maybe we could avoid each other again soon, yeah? Even the skeletons in my closet won’t talk to me. Movie and chill? No thanks, but we could binge watch the rapid loss of our sense of self and compare darknesses together.
We are obsessed with ourselves, comes with mental illness territory, no good can sprout or be maintained from us and we secretly like it. We know it.
You know why I do not care what you do to me or anyone really, unintentionally or not, because it is like a confirmation bias with my inner self. With my fucked up ness I am okay with it. Don’t even apologize, that’s for people who care.
Be free, be enchanted, be ready to be cosmic dust. I released you when my fantasy of you ghosted me. I now belong deeply to myself. In a complicated relationship with my sense of self, self destruction, blue period, trying to find the return policy on the gift of life.
Maybe one day you will come over and binge watch my manic episodes.
I am not leaving. I was never there. Petals of illusion. I need to focus on being my own pestilence, you can destroy me, I want it but I want to do it myself, the satisfaction. I am desperately clinging to an endless day dream of drug fueled art parties.
Constant thoughts of decay. Everyday I am questioning why I am alive. Our depressions are not compatible. I wish they were. Maybe our silences won’t be so loud. I am being held hostage by human consciousness and that is the war I am fighting every day. All you tell me is what I go through but you may just be blind to that with the concept of how nobody understands you, so I will not my head and listen. I m done wanting to be understood.
That awkward moment you realize how cold you’ve become but you still want to say, “let’s dress up as our vague sense of incorporeal dissatisfaction and dance under the pale moonlight.” because you have nothing to lose.