Destroy all monsters:
Jealousy,
regret,
the image of her body pressed to another,
and
the sprawling void in her absence.
My loss didn’t end me, it did not cut my wings. It broke them. Why? I guess life in its wickedly humorous way wanted to leave me the illusion that I could heal and live to fly again.
It feels like exile as I sit in this cave, the way out shut by an impossibly large boulder. I put the boulder there. Because…
society shows it’s ugly side, forcing my own ugly pain to hide.
Around and in the dark I use nicotine and coffee to eliminate what’s obscene in mind replacing the real with hollowness divine.
So, I have to ask then,
ever have those days where you could put the very gum in your mouth in your hair?
Ever have one of those days where you could smoke a pack of cigarettes without thinking, in one sitting? Ever have one of those days where you could purposefully drop a glass of coffee?
Bad days I’ll tell you that. They leave only gummed up hair, black lungs, and a less full cabinet. You could try to shake it off: the overly gnawing anxiety making you writhe in your skin. What comes after the slight tear in your mental state? Another day where your reaction is a ludicrously dramatic one? Who knew a poor diction could tug on the tethers of a heart, yanking on the frayed bits until it drops like a meteor. If my bad days were books then I think we’d have another Library of Alexandria with the same likeliness of burning. Imagine you’re getting pelted by rubber bullets and non-lethal hoses knowing there’s a real metal bullet in there somewhere. Avoiding that one bad day, the kind of bad day that when read on paper kindles laughter — it is so fictitious sounding.
Keep getting blasted by rubber, eventually that one real shot will land and then you won’t have to worry any longer. A broken switch flicks on and all actions wear the attire of mental illness. Blame becomes a grenade that you’ll throw at everyone lurking in your life. How many will combust in my descent? Their red bits scattered up and more misery spread to others. Your final, absolute worst day can be the spark of anyone else’s. A fallen feather still makes the wild, frantic ocean ripple.
I speak of a grim fate. I speak of my fate. To you I plead: destroy all monsters.
