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 Posted: Wed Jun 26, 2013 4:30 pm
Quote: All of these contain disturbing themes.
Write everything.
So I write.
I'll write about my thoughts and experiences here, while I pass my sentence. While I wait out a week of this nondescript location. And I'll endure all the ceaseless conclusions drawn about my actions, and I'll endure all the diagnoses, and I'll endure all the checks.
I will survive this.
Even if I find this journal wholly useless, and this exercise pointless, I'll use it to my advantage.
I'll use it to bide my time.
---
To measure these people against one another would be akin to measuring the color blue against the sound of whalesong. They're so entirely different from one another, it's like they don't even exist on the same plane... All these damaged people, housed under the same pretense. Surviving the same ordeals in wholly different fashions. I don't really know what to make of it right now, but it feels like something's here for me. Something I can grasp, something I can use to my advantage.
But is it the people here?
There's Alexandria, whose story is bitter to swallow. She sits across from me, two tables down, with her needlepoint legs crossed over one another as she rests her chin on a hammock of spindly fingers. She told me once why she was here, though I suspect she's ashamed of it almost as much as she's ashamed of herself. She explained that she couldn't shake the feeling of dirtiness, so once a month she bathed in bleach. It burned her, peeled her skin into some lumpy carapace. She explained that she felt simultaneously relieved and overwhelmingly frightened about the whole affair, but did nothing about it. She said she maintained that same routine for six months before it ceased to work. In her panic, in her realization of her horrific nature,
she drank it.
Tried to clean herself out from the inside.
Now she's here, baring her story to any who might listen. Like it's got some hidden moral waiting to be discovered. Like there's something within it that I should've gleaned by now, and I can feel it, I'm so close, but... Not close enough.
I guess I'm not ready to understand her tribulations.
Instead I told her
you'd look prettier if you were a little whiter.
---
I've discovered this place isn't filled with failed suicides alone. I hadn't seen him until this evening; one of the attendants explained that he spends the majority of his day in his room, and if I walk by, I'll hear the faint, tinny sounds of music. Sometimes the clinking of metal on metal. She explained he works out religiously, several hours a day, but he comes out for meals. She said he's requested creatine on numerous occasions but every instance has been denied for his own safety.
But he came out this evening.
He came out, and my, is he a strange one.
Without fail, he picks any entree sporting a lot of meat. Sporting nuts. Sporting fish. Anything that might supply his muscles with a little more reason to grow. So I sat next to him, pale and skinny and ten pounds lighter than I should've been. And we sat in silence at first. A long, deep silence full of more understanding than we could've managed when speaking.
More than we did, anyway.
He must've noticed my repeated glances at his tattoo, because he broached the subject without my solicitation.
But first I'll explain the tattoo: it was of the capitoline wolf, entirely rendered in tribal design, with Romulus and Remus beneath her teats. However, instead of suckling on her, they seemed to be giving her their strength. It was a strange perversion of a widely-known tale.
So he asked me what I thought about it. And I replied, are you from Rome?
He just laughed and refuted my question as easily as he could lift a five pound weight.
He said he used to be a breeder. He said he bred golden retrievers for over ten years, and that he had produced a few champions in his time. But nurturing a species like that, with such drive and instinct, leeches from you more than it nurtures you. It saps everything you have, and it keeps draining until it kills you.
Until it's won.
Realizing this, he said, he had an epiphany. This small, inkling of an idea. This sudden pang of self-preservation.
He said shortly before being admitted, he had twelve dogs on his hand. Three adults, nine puppies. He said they owned half the house and all the yard. He said they owned his heart and soul more than any woman ever could. And he said that, bereft of his heart and his soul, he had nothing. He had no strength, no drive, no sense of fulfillment.
So he did what he could to survive.
I asked him, how did you manage that?
He laughed a little, told me that I was too curious for my own good. Told me it would kill me one day, as it almost had already. Then he explained himself, and explained his epiphany in such cold detail that it felt I was accessing a textbook. Chilling, to be certain.
He said he fed his dogs as he did every morning, and soaked the wet food in cyanide. He said he set out their water like he did every morning, but instead he gave them propylene glycol.
He said there was blood.
So. Much. Blood.
And I had nothing to say.
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Posted: Wed Jun 26, 2013 4:30 pm
Day Two: Piety in the SinkWord count: 794I wonder if Alexandria dreams in bleach? I remember thinking that as I laid there, sharp and clear and so awake, while I considered
every
single
possibility
that she might be thinking of me in that very same moment.
---
I normally wouldn't mention this, but every day we have a patient-run announcement period. And every morning, we shun or engulf our breakfast, and we listen to the next nearly comatose voice drone on through the mandatory drivel before they lurch to a stop on the most interesting exercise in morning announcements: sharing our feelings.
Naturally I wanted to know what Alexandria said, so I waited with bated breath.
And I waited.
And I waited through lies.
And I waited through lies and self-imposed punishments.
And then someone surprised me - someone said they felt they knew the world, every petal of every flower and every hair on every mammal. Every etch in every rock. Every droplet in every waterfall.
And they felt
so
connected
so
beautiful
so
inspired
and I knew I couldn't escape talking to him.
---
Every time I sit, I count them. I come up with a different number.
25, 26, 24, 22, 28.
I can't tell if it's my eyes.
Every time I move, I count them. I feel them pull, I feel them strain against me.
12, 13, 14, 15, 16.
I can't tell if it's my skin.
Every time I slip, I count them. I feel them sink their teeth into me without mercy.
∞, ∞, ∞, ∞, ∞.
I can't tell if I'm alive.
---
I got lucky.
Sometimes if we behave, if we ever behave, the staff will ask us to help with menial cleaning tasks. It's supposed to inspire us to take pride in our work.
And so he stood facing the wall, arms stretched high like branches yearning for the sun. Back gnarled with bone railing against pale skin. A spindly frame providing meager support for clothes. He looked no different from a light post. A flagpole. A clothesline.
But I guess we're all not so different from those things.
He told me his name was Spencer. But, he said, he had a lot of names. Thousands of names. Thousands of lives. Thousands of voices, thousands of kingdoms, thousands of passions. He understood the world in so many ways that the world no longer held meaning. He understood so many tongues that words no longer held merit. He understood so many actions that protests no longer held reason.
And that's when he told me that the universe was only composed of entropy.
That makes sense, I conceded.
He said he's seen who I've been, and I have so few lives under my belt. He said I haven't even developed the simplest understanding of transcending lives, of borrowed souls.
I didn't.
His laugh sounds tinny, mechanical. It lacked any mirth. It sounded more like a series of stunted exhalations of anything. It sounded like he'd managed those same noises out of habit for so long that they deteriorated into something monstrous, something that no longer held the same meaning.
Like a deaf person's words. They simply degrade into something indiscernible.
---
Once upon a time there was a slip of a girl, with bones the width of a thread. When she smiled, her teeth bore her yellowed bitterness. Her breath smelled sickly sweet. When she brushed her hair, the brittle strands fell to the floor in droves, like the sickly during the time of black death. The tangled mat on her head was somewhere between brown and grey. When she walked, her limbs operated mechanically, as if they lacked all sense of being human. And maybe they did.
And maybe she wasn't.
This little girl was once a beautiful princess, back when payphones weren't so unusual. Back when metal was king. Back when Columbine was just a school.
She even still clutches the photo. An old, damaged polaroid depicting an unconscionably beautiful girl enjoying the fruits of life. Goethe could not adequately describe her striking appearance.
Yet now, her spell unraveled, her stay far past midnight, this princess withered into a shell of herself. Her flesh unraveled, leaving only skin married to bone. And though I never saw the transformation, I found it difficult to refrain from mourning her conclusion. Happy endings don't exist anymore; they're a thing of the past.
So instead, I asked her why.
Why would you do this to yourself.
And she explained to me, words sweetened by her rot-breath, that it was a way of life.
That it was her religion.
And in that moment, she patiently introduced me to her religion: to the garden nurtured by twins Ana and Mia.
And words burned in my throat like fire.
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Posted: Wed Jun 26, 2013 5:51 pm
Day Three: To a Prophet Darkly
Word count: 868
These halls are filled with ghosts.
I live among the dead. The nearly dead. The mentally dead.
And I'm finding
I can't
justify
life.
---
What Spencer said plagued me like maggots on a corpse. I couldn't comprehend what he so easily grasped. I couldn't discern all the minutia that he found simplistic. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me, or what was so right with him.
I needed to know, so I found him again. And when we spoke, his affect was so far removed from how he behaved before.
I asked him, can we talk about yesterday?
He said fine.
So I continued, can you explain how I could attain that sort of understanding of the world?
He stared.
I asked, do you remember talking to me yesterday?
He agrees.
I think we might be getting somewhere. So I say, you told me that you understood the universe so easily, like you were a part of it. Like you were connected to it. It almost sounded like you manipulate the universe on your own. I wanted to know how you managed that kind of realization.
He said it's hard to explain.
Well, can't you start?
No.
I didn't want to waste my time, so I left in search of answers.
---
I found the dog killer again. He looked sickly, pale. He told me he might not be here for much longer.
That didn't matter to me.
I asked him, have you met Spencer?
He admitted he had, and that he didn't like that type. He said that man will be here for far longer than any of us. That despite Alexandria's obsession with cleanliness, or Susan's idolization of Ana and Mia, or my morbid search for an understanding of mortality, Spencer surpasses us all.
I said I know. Isn't he enlightened?
I was wrong.
He said I was wrong, he said enlightenment has nothing to do with a mind that's been shattered, and lost a few pieces. Lost several pieces. No, he would never achieve enlightenment, not when he's buried beneath all the stranger aeons swirling about his mind.
Aeons, I said. What do aeons have to do with anything.
Didn't you know? Spencer's schizophrenic.
---
Sometimes
_these
__people
___just
____creep
_____along
______in
_______their
________strange
_________machinations
__________without
___________understanding
____________their
_____________desire
______________for
_______________irrevocable
________________punishment.
---
I just want to burn the world and everyone in it.
I've been lied to.
I've been led to believe that someone could ascertain a sense of the universe. And I thought someone had. I've been gullible enough, stupid enough, to be blinded by a schizophrenic mixture of word salad and positive symptoms. I thought I was talking to someone who has seen every facet of reality,
but I was talking to a lie drowning in his own mind.
I know now that my desires are impossible.
Machinations of hubris.
I can't hope to understand the world,
so I'll understand the human mind instead.
---
I met susan again.
We sat down and discussed Ana.
She said before she was admitted, she weighed 87 lbs. She laid out for me the extents of her rigorous exercises. She explained, in excruciating detail, the 100 sit-ups, and the 50 push-ups, though she could never bring herself past 47. She detailed the route of her three-mile walk. At that point, she said, she earned her first hundred-fifty calories and a glass of water. Sometimes, she admitted, she caved and went for two hundred.
Afterward she went to work. She sat on a stationary bike at work, while she answered customer service calls for a cash-to-gold company, and she pedaled away four hours. Lunch came, and she allowed herself a 90 calorie bag of chips. More water. Water has no calories. Water is her lifeblood. And so she worked.
And pedaled.
And worked.
And pedaled.
When she came home, a final 110 calories wrapped up her allotted budget. By that time she was too tired to call her friends. Too tired to listen to old messages she saved from her ex boyfriend. Too tired to write in her personal blog about accomplishing another day with a reduced diet.
So I asked if I could interject.
She gave me the go-ahead.
I said I was skeptical of 450 calories. I reiterated her morning exercises, her walk, her hours of stationary pedaling. Afterward I said 450 calories for all that sounded undisciplined. She should be able to accomplish that with 250 calories. I asked her if she was even trying to lose weight. I asked her if she just treated Ana like a false god, like all that she stood for meant nothing.
She started to cry.
She said I didn't understand how hard it was to maintain such a strict regimen with no one to help her but herself. She said she only had online guides to rely on, and constantly feared collapsing from exhaustion and going to the hospital. She said she was now living her own nightmare, all because she tapered to 450 calories too soon.
I said bullshit.
She yelled at me in a splintered voice, rife with sorrow and guilt and a creeping understanding that I may just be right.
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Posted: Fri Jun 28, 2013 11:41 pm
Day Four: To Attest to a Perfect Form
Word count: 858
I have always walked in the rain.
I have always been ancient.
I have always been proud.
But as the rain stops, and the vapors linger just before the hours of dawn
I realize
my hunger
my thirst
my pain
for such endeavors.
I have always walked in the rain.
I have always been stoic.
I have always been patient.
But as my hundred foot-lengths draw to a close
I wonder
how far
how deep
how strong
are my aspirations?
I have always walked in the rain.
I have always been unrestrained.
I have always been atrocious.
But as these twisted spines conjoin in timeless celebration
I find my limitless contempt for walking in the rain.
---
Certain things feel like fingers
prodding at your skull your mind your motivation to resemble something worth knowing.
Something to admire on a pedestal, out of wretched hate or pious devotion.
And I'd love to be admired, but
that
isn't the point.
These fingers, they claw deeply into my skin. Penetrate the sinew. Pervert the bone. Scrape at the pores of the marrow. They're like vultures, searching for the better cuts of flesh. The better fragments of man. Of me. And I don't mind.
If i can carry on in the system of a vulture
then I will spread throughout the land
and I will grow as a tree
and I will entrench myself in fauna
and I will spread like wildfire
and soon the earth will know only me.
But I digress.
These fingers stem from the hands of change. The arms that shape and guide them. The mind behind this whole endeavor issued a decree, a position, a statement irrefutable. And like proper viscera, we bend and shape to that will, and we function as another misshapen organism. And that organism will exist in a turbulent, pointless life. It will fragment and shatter. It will return to dust.
And then we'll be free.
At least
That's what I told her.
You see, she finally took my advice to heart. She finally decided to push her limits, to transcend boundaries once coveted. She wanted to know what she could achieve, and who would blame her for that? Lost in the depths of her religion, she has no other choice. No other path. All I did was steer her toward salvation. She wanted absolution in the eyes of her gods, she wanted dimensions she could only attain in another life, she wanted acceptance in the form of liquefied salad. And she found that salvation, grasped it for a few precious moments before those fingers pried it away.
They knew what they were doing. They understood the ramifications of abolishing her only hope for a proper transition to a better form, a more complete version of her former self. And I liked it, for what it's worth.
I liked watching the unabashed pain and pleading in her eyes.
I liked hearing her indiscernible moans of anguish.
I liked watching that meager weight meter slowly climb in number.
To her dismay.
Always, always, always to her dismay.
---
We talked about it for a while.
Her, I mean.
Susan.
Alexandria related nicely. She can identify with pain. And pain becomes her, in a peculiar way.
She understands the monotony of a painless existence.
She has a tragically beautiful view of spirituality. She grasps the concept of transcendence. And she's worn it, a thousand-fold, across the smooth contours of her hands and the taut line of her mouth. The shoulders born from protruding clavicles. The tapered, ashen legs. All these things are touched by some semblance of absolution.
And I respect her for her devotion. Dedication. Determination.
Her words are worth savoring, drinking in and assimilating.
The spirit needs its sacrilege.
I love Susan, but she doesn't know how to hide her private practices. Even I could tell, and I wasn't even looking for it, you know? My heart goes out to her. After all that time and effort she put into it, and how beautifully thin she was, the peanut gallery would reverse it in a second. Look at her - she's so obviously unhappy. She's strapped to that horrible chair, and always being pumped full of food. The poor dear... I want to do something for her. I want to help her get past this, however I can.
I've decided I'll try to give her a gift. Nothing too noticeable, I don't think... But I was thinking she could use something else in that tube, you know? Something to help her clean herself out and feel a little more pure on the inside. I know what it's like to feel bloated and dirty, and I think the method I had going works just fine. There's nothing wrong with it. So I'll get her some bleach. She'll appreciate it. At least she won't have to worry about her stomach anymore.
To achieve salvation through desecration.
Through self-destruction.
I wonder if the same could be said with the destruction of others?
---
These veins are not a part
of a whole; they retain its
petulant graces.
---
One day
____I will
______________eat
________________________________________________the weak.
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Posted: Mon Jul 01, 2013 5:12 pm
Day Five: A Long Dissertation on Death
Word Count: 710
Some things are meant to break
in little shards, in little splinters
and they lodge
into your tongue
into your throat
into your skin.
_____It's happened before.
When she broke, she painted her sorrows across the sky
in minute loops and whorls and strange designs
that I couldn't navigate myself.
It's a visceral matter.
Her pain ravaged all the spectators, perched atop her
wiry carcass
and it didn't matter to them;
_____it's happened before.
So when she succumbed to all these
petty little schemers, these
arbitrary tigers, these
strange musings once called man
she wept and writhed and splintered.
It's a visceral matter.
Each gangly, gnarled vulture bore the mark of
her sin, of
her heartache, of
her failure to follow scripture
to follow its tongues of pure inspiration and purer
vomitoriums
but that was excusable.
_____It's happened before.
---
I found propylene glycol again. I found him in such an
altered state
that I hardly recognized him.
And I admired him, more than I admired the ever t_____h____i___n__n_n er girl, that shambled coathanger of a girl, though she captured my heart in the viscosity of her sputum.
It's almost too hard to describe.
He never answered my knocks, my calls, my pleads. My inane attempts to make conversation. This was nothing new. This was nothing bearing response. But every time I would seep in, cross that threshold like the roach that I am, find him engrossed in activities preventing all vocalizations from being perceived. And maybe that's why I liked him.
I visited so often, after all.
With the impeding silence, unmarred by his tinny speakers, I entered. And I found him. And I found him so passionate and so blunt and so deliberate that I could do nothing but shut the door behind me. I couldn't grasp the scene in a single breath. I couldn't understand it in its wordless, visceral glory without venturing just a little closer.
Only a little closer wouldn't hurt.
Only a little closer became a little more close.
A little more close became quite close.
And quite close became a simple touch.
It never ceased until I laid my head against his chest, at the bottom of his sternum. Against the bone, so defiant and harsh upon my skin. And I heard it. I heard the quiet whisperings that I sought before, the clarity to a scene that so escaped me.
Before the staff arrived, I heard it clearly, and he responded in kind. I heard the very core of him, without its rhythm. I heard that discordant sound so easily now, that it almost became a part of me. Maybe it did. Maybe he splintered into my ear and lodged in my cochlea in his last actions of un-life. And I knew I had to find out. I had to discern his intentions. I had to make my own inquiries.
---
I don't know how he died.
But I know him now.
I know all of him.
DAVIS, JARED LEE______E76903448
DOB 02/17/1976_______M
DR LUCI CAMPBELL_____E0094588
I'll hold onto this for a while.
---
They said no one knows.
He said he could feel it in his bones.
He told me earlier.
Said he would die soon.
Said it with certainty.
And I felt it absolutely.
His death became a part of me.
---
Steven.
T
E
V
E
N
Seven with a T. That's his name, I hear.
He looked yellow to me.
Yellow and shaking, and clutching his guts.
I was waiting for them to spill onto the floor.
He smelled sweet. Sickly sweet. Sickly sweet like Susan's vomit sweet.
He asked me for mouthwash, and I obliged. I always oblige. I told him he smelled like he needed it. He didn't smile. Guess he didn't think it was funny.
But he drank the mouthwash, and he drank it with such barren desperation.
I watched his features with interest. Anyone else would have. He wore expressions so well. His countenance changed from relief, to confusion, to fright, and I couldn't help but intervene. I couldn't let such a pinnacle moment go to waste.
I told him it was non-alcoholic.
He lamented, but I smiled.
I love this place more than anywhere else in the world.
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Posted: Mon Jul 01, 2013 11:57 pm
Day Six: Turpitude in Turpentine Minor
Word Count: 618
I would build a temple for you.
Oh, I would toil
until my skin withered to dust
and my blood bore amaryllis
and my bones traced the sky with chalk
And I would build a temple for you.
Out of my own body.
For you.
Only for you.
And you could weather its walls with bleach
Eat out of its inner sanctum
Eviscerate the halls
But I will endure
For you.
Only for you.
I would build a temple for you.
---
She left me with the taste of bleach. With this finite shell of an experience, with the buzzing of dragonfly wings and the sweet, viscous odor of orchids clouding my lungs. Clouding my senses. Clouding my lips, punctuated by the acrid odor of bleach.
Chlorinated, she tells me. Oxygenated lacks the same effect.
She would never live in Europe.
Chlorinated, not oxygenated.
And those legs.
Those ivory legs roiling beneath the stormy seas of summer cloth, those same spine-thin legs that left me without answers and without a single breath to expel them. They whispered past me, and the ebb of dishwater followed them without protest. I could only watch, watch her bracketed shoulders and her bony arms and her bruised hips as she left me to yearn in an uninspired hellhole of a room.
And a single cap.
A single blue cap.
She pressed it into my hand so hard it cut into my skin with the harsh realities of our nature. The inevitability of this sole tryst.
We were two keys - keys to a lock waiting to be unlocked as we unlocked ourselves.
As we fused ourselves among lengths of dishwater and bleached whispers.
All I had was that taste of bleach
and the blue cap.
She kept the empty bottle to herself
clutched it to her chest
curled her fingers around it with the strength of a thousand pythons
and she seethed when I touched it.
She never left the room.
But the bleach left her.
It peeled down the sides of the bed
pooled on the floor
eked across the tiles and traced the grout.
Blood echoed the bleach.
---
Sometimes if I close my eyes
I can feel the dark hair coiling against my skin.
356
her room number.
3:56
her time after death.
E76903356
her patient number.
Sometimes if I close my eyes
I can feel her words churning against my ears.
Chlorinated breath.
Oxygenated thoughts.
Corrosive actions.
She felt so real.
Sometimes if I close my eyes
I can feel her respirations echo through my chest.
They rattle and hiss
and boil my lungs
and scald my mind
but that pain means nothing to sustain a lasting experience.
---
I couldn't take her tag.
I couldn't take her tag.
I couldn't take her tag.
I couldn't take her tag.
I couldn't take her <********> tag.
---
Sometimes
if you stand just right
and you hold your breath
and you crane your neck
you can smell it.
You can smell what they do with the failed ones.
It stains your teeth with ash, melts
your skin with licentious violations of the flesh.
Violations by flame.
You recognize it. You breathe it in and never breathe it out.
You love it, succumb to it, or you allow it to taint you.
I recognized the smell.
Veal, freshly cooked, married to acrid sulfur and marinated in heavy iron. Wrapped in overcooked bacon. Boiled beef, but not beef. Sour, but sickly sweet. Like Susan's vomit, but far more putrid. Far more deceitful. Far more iniquitous. It drew me in, ensnared me in its thick, throat-burning grasp, and smothered me.
It smelled faintly of bleach.
I swallowed the cap to keep from screaming.
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Posted: Wed Jul 03, 2013 8:33 pm
Day Seven: Resignation without Notice
Word count: 583
I understood him through his mindless platitudes, his
damning insensibilities and his
need to seek guidance from the superfluous sides of himself.
But what I've written here are his words,
his wisdom
his secret machinations.
And I love him all the more for it.
And I want him all the more for it.
And I hate him all the more for it.
And I
want him
dead.
I've seen every strip of time, tatted and woven, draped upon each other like a thousand-thousand bodies of the holocaust shoah. I've seen them perforate the edges of perception. I've seen them drown leagues of men in the swaths of ages. I've seen them churn amongst each other like a dance between drowning fish. Despite all these things, I am here - in this present time, in this very place, to relay the wisdom from my million lifetimes.
I am the blood-caked leopard that wept for the kill.
For the finale of a play enacted far more times than any written piece.
Each tear bore a shred of wisdom, and that wisdom gnarled and coiled into a tree, into a rickety old man, into the ancient bones of the planet. All these things are the same, all these things have some measure of grace to their existence.
Even my secrets skitter up the branches. I will share but one with you, if you can withstand entrusting your head to the leopard's bloodbathed mouth.
That secret:
Everything turns in tides. Everything swirls and flows with the flotsam of memory and the jetsam of sense. Yet all these pieces are subjected to the clockwork sea, and every moment of our lives is spent amongst the jetsam, standing tall against waves that will inevitably swallow us in their undertow.
Surrender to the waves.
Turn in tides.
Flotsam and jetsam.
Erode with the sea.
If you can manage this tribulation, you will transcend transgression. You will absolve yourself of mortality. You will understand the core of the universe.
You will be as me.
You will take my place.
You will see.
---
His words churned, burned, turned against me.
I guess you could say I wanted it.
Maybe I did.
But I know what I did.
Maybe I'll share someday, but...
Not today.
---
I must confess, I
can't quite
feel
like I used to.
Maybe
these s t i t c h e s
are a little___________too
_______________________________________________tight.
I don't have a mind.
---
Volumes speak through blood and bone
and visceral demand.
He woke with such suspense.
He remembered my name.
(What a sweet surprise)
And with every____passing____breath
we exchanged our turning towers
of thought and broken speech.
We built our ceaseless spires and dug our secret pits
we entrenched ourselves in these makeshift mischiefs
and for what?
A simple request.
A simple mistake.
A simple lie.
So we took our measures of time
Pressed into the ages
Encircling all our ceaseless travesties.
Now I look
Closely at his
Eviscerated
Remains.
Or so they say.
---
DEAN, SPENCER E______E76903291
DOB 05/24/1985_________M
DR LUCI CAMPBELL_____E0094588
---
I still smell the iron on my breath.
It soaked my pores
stained my flesh.
I never envied the dead.
I just watch them transcend from their endless purpose.
Like a crow, perched atop church bells.
The landscape is my carrion; I pick apart the skies and rip through the seas and tear the mountains asunder
if only for a fleck of blood, an inkling of meat.
Oh,
do I hunger
for______________ meat.
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