I don’t care anymore.
All I do is not care anymore. Or pretend not to.
It’s hard to let go of the scar. It burns sometimes and at others it is dead.
And I don’t care.
The unspoken aches within but silence heals. Or not.
Vomit everything since birth. All the food and blood and love.
I only wish nonexistence because it’s the easy way out. I don’t want to work hard. I don’t want to wait. I don’t want no more vomit.
Pathetic and sick and adolescent.
Let’s eat more food because we’ve got nothing to do except consumption.
Let’s intimidate each other because we’ve tried the better choices.
Let’s be humans and life sucks.
And it is probably just another vomit sac.
You are reading this, or when you do, know that you’re still walking around in my mind. Dragging the baggage of seemingly endless memories.
Sleep happier than now.
It’s okay to die.
I feel we should go and elope and dance where the music doesn’t exist. There things are peaceful.
Peace. We’ve been working on it for millennia and we’re still standing here on the battlefield; blood pools and love letters and your face in the ground and my mind. I can’t hear your voice.
I can’t hear mine. No. I hear it very distinctly. It calls for mercy and death. And disappearance.
But how can you lose something that doesn’t exist?