come home the kids miss you.

I can’t go on living with this ever-present rage and chronic grief woven into the marrow of who I am.

the fact that we eventually give parts of ourselves to people who may only be passing through our lives is even more absurd than the fact that I can still recall a stranger’s favorite movie from years ago

someone for whom happiness is an omen for upcoming suffering does not deserve to eat of the sweet flesh it is made of. the fruit of joy must be picked by those that can appreciate the fleetingness of the taste. maybe I just haven't the affinity for it. thus, I must kill and I must die; the taste of blood in place of fruit.

then I witness her arising and yet again I pick up the dagger to send her careening back into torment. that is her eternal state, bloodied by the hands of her own soul.

I kill me to preserve her innocence. I'm glad to have laid waste to my own self before she could be soiled by another's sins.

the glinting blade is not the only thing that reeks of metal. the blood pooling beneath my feet, coating the floor in anguish. I watch as the last semblance of life twitches from her frantic limbs. she wanted this. I didn't.

the idea is that the agonizing squeeze of misfortune after misfortune is the normal. seeing my own body cower beneath me; the dagger cold in my sweating palms, indenting my flesh with macabre intention. I plunge it through her neck and crimson spurts forth like I've struck a spring.

know it's for the better

I used to clean my room every time I knew you were heading home just in case you ever bought a ticket to my city and showed up at my door

i think you just let it win

how do you stop it from crawling back