this big sexy regret machine

So i can say something useful. So i can say something useful.       The words haven’t been here lately. I don’t know where they’ve been. All words are lost in prepositions — where does it belong? When did it come here? When are you going to write that letter? Are you alright? This isn’t self doubt. No, I have moved past the season of self doubt. I think I can write confidently, maybe even fluently. I’ve hardly written anything worthwhile in months. I’ve hardly written anything worthwhile in months. There’s nothing worth saying. Repetition is a composite trick of the hand, filling the mould of content with a word count. My brain is cooked. Steamed in dishwater, stinking like unclean dishes. The smell of burnt chemicals dries the nose through. It’s a certain kind of lingering rot that sticks to the interior of my skull. I’ve been washing dishes for three days a week for the last while. The dishwashing machine does the meaningful work. I only clean around the edges,...

Deeper, deeper into this sweet quiet. Sweeter and sweet, and the darker the night gets, the less I feel. There, at four am, thinking about nothing. I am home, and I am safe. There is nobody I need to talk to, nobody will ever need anything of me again. My eyes stay open, my body listens to only itself. While this space is quiet, peace seeps through in different ways. I do not seek peace, not yet. There is nothing to be felt. I keep all ideas and knowings out. It is not a combat. I am just listening to other music. This song sounds so good. This is my jam. This is my song. Forever and ever I will keep listening to this song, as I live through this dream. Home and somewhere else entirely. A physical self sticks to these bedsheets like a toy stuck to a window. This body is filled with liquids and fruits not its own. It peels, shedding empty husks, revealing something quieter beneath. A place of solemn quiet. The window looks to the hollow and cold world. In one moment, I am growing, a...