M.P.D.

Twitch. Wrench. Breathe. Start again.

This isn't what was supposed to happen.

Twitch. Once. Twice. Over and over.

Love, ha, love, love, love is so informal, so wrong on so many levels for so many yet so right!

Wrench, yelp, scream, untwist.

Stop talking and laughing and poking and scraping and cutting and tearing and killing me. All of you. Every single one of you. Go away.

Lyrics from "1,000,000" loop like a broken record:
"Put the gun,
In my mouth,
Close your eyes,
blow my fucking brains out,
pretty patterns,
on the floor-"

Breathe. Hard. Harder. Suck the air from the earth. Throw it all back up. Count the teeth as they tumble out.

Is this my hand running through my hair? Was it my idea to write these words? How can my purpose for life be my own?

Geist: writer. Skulker. Diseased. Opinionated. Ignored.

Nick: lover. Talker. Healthy. Agreeable. Heard.

The lines are getting harder to find. Grope around for another strand, one more barrier to put up to stem the overflow from one into the other, help me stop the bleeding, please, it's just one cut and it won't happen again I promise but I'm not sure if they do, never mind, I'll just curl up and die because I'd rather do that than live a life without companionship or love or friends or hate or enemies or any of that because that's useless and I'm useless and please leave me alone so I can kill the chorus in my head now thank you.

Start again.

That's all I can do.