Ice Picks and Membranes

I am having a really difficult time resolving my internal chaos and the bullshit that all entails with being a person in a relationship who can’t always control how I lash out in moments of impulsive volatility and it’s really fucking wearing on me.

“Most people don’t realize that two large pieces of coral, painted brown, and attached to his skull with common wood screws can make a child look like a deer.”

I had an easier time when the only person I had to worry about fucking up was myself (not discounting the things that live in my spine). Which is not to say I’m questioning being with my person. I’m just having trouble, maaaaaan.

What’s that on your neck? Oh, that’s just my bird mark.

I feel like my brain is trying to eat itself. How can it be possible to possess the self-awareness to know you are crazy but be powerless to control or fix it?

Boy reaches out for help. Grasping. Panicked. There is no hand. There is no rope. There is no help. There is only abyss.

Like a lot of intelligent animals, most crows are quite social. Like a lot of social intelligence, most animals are idiots.

To explain, I am diagnosed bipolar with psychotic features and borderline personality disorder. Sometimes I wonder if they got that wrong.

I can hear you dying. It smells like fresh cut raindrops.

Like maybe I’m schizophrenic. Point is, I can watch myself behaving in these terrible, irrational ways, but I can’t stop it. I’m not the one driving, just along for the ride.

When I dreamt of him the other night, his entire being was contained in the bone-white tips of his rotten, decaying fingers. It haunts me.

And I get to the point I am at now, absolute confusion and exhaustion and delusional manic absurdity. I can’t find myself. I lash out and hurt the ones closest to me, who love me, who I am supposed to love.

The bees made honey. You couldn’t expect a greater show of purpose. But we let that honey rot. And the bees do not soon forgive, nor ever forget.

And the more I try to grasp and clench and hold onto and control the thing, the more spun out I feel. The more lost and distant and separated I become.

I was searching, for what felt like years all stitched together with fragile ribbons of nerve tissue, through an infinite mound of sun-hot sand, for something completely intangible and without name but somehow I knew finding it to be essential.

There are bricks in the yard downstairs, please come hit me in the brain with at least ten of them.

Thousands of small, deformed, multicolored beetles with razor-head mandibles would come scurrying out from underneath each handful of dirt and detritus, shimmering brilliantly in the oppressive sunlight, running rampant in chaotic shooting starbursts to every corner of existence. The sound was ungodly. I woke up before I could find the thing.

I am just a breath away from dispersing into nothingness.

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