//best served with milk

four washed out tea-bags later i am insufferable, torment in what could have been and what should have been but never quite asking what was- we all know what happened then. it’s only the fact that i’ve been here before, the same notions. thoughts.

spiraling

back

again

inevitably. that keeps me from going insane. She knows nothing of this of course, building those ruler-straight bars between me and (redacted) is as ritutal as the fucking sun rising now and what i hate the most about all this is that there is not a single thing that could convince me that any of this was a mistake. i take the same knife still crusted with blood to cut out my heart again and again and again and again,,,, and its not prometheus’ punishment but something that has become some tokenistic motion if only to take some twisted satisfaction in the way the knife digs deeper, hurts less, and i beam with bloodied hands because i had no use for it anyways.

she is the monument to my failures and i love her the more for it.