I stop clenching and let out a disgusting amount of anger I never even had.

I don’t know what to write cause I don’t write – I stop clenching and let out a disgusting amount of anger I never even had. I am nothing at all moments and I need to forget it so I talk through it and take apart everything I like so that I like nothing. There is nothing to like when it’s all too beautiful to take. If I let it get to me I become fixated and marinate in it too long to know I’m nothing at all worth marinating in. There s an impulse I can’t locate deep in me like a bitter herb I like to drink from to gesticulate myself to puppetry. I fuck myself up in such a beautiful way I can’t be anything other than the strings clasped onto my seams. I want you to fling me about a little bit so I can feel something other than myself pulling at this thing. I am nothing, but this thing is. It’s the thing I like and need to show for myself otherwise I’m a sweaty lump of flesh with a tongue for a brain that twists round the point till it’s desecrated – along with the person on the other end. If I’m lucky nobody s there and I can fling myself about till I rip it up enough to let it take its time to grow back. It’s all too beautiful to take seriously; it’ll kill me again; have me foraging for miles only to turn back and find what I left burnt to the ground. I’m strayed willingly, with enough sensibility to not let things hurt me too much. I’m a dick and a carcass of a dick at that; with some need to execute every thought as to not feel and feel in silence as to not speak about it. It’s been easy enough to do this and either I need to shut up or not be so quiet. I don’t know what the fuck people want but I always trail in the opposite direction. I don’t write because I only unclench and it’s usually better to do it inwardly as to not push things away. I’ll push into you and have something ugly come out the other end. It’s not so bad when I’m on my own. I can keep face for longer and exhaust my own supply of wonder in brief moments. I share only with you the things that brother me because they seem to mean more. And though often I’m a coward and flatten em evenly, I despise to despise and am generally quite flatly happy and loving and in love with most things. This is the truth. I love so much that it scares me and makes me suspicious. I don’t wanna push things away but it’s hard not to. I only have it in me to ek out a joke so as to not fixate. I fixate still and bother myself into cynical headaches. I love though. I do.