Wednesday, July 1, 2015

the depressive march; stomping on
buried suns- i'll fool myself into my
personal alchemy
so long as there remains a ring to it- that
symphonic navigation- mine, sonorous, following

the dots of needle-point sized lies, i've got
millions- this thought right here
seems quit false and decided by deliberate
and mean, mean me- the mason jar

the stillborn resides in
and the fluids inside that it
was forced to adapt to; to depend on.

me, me, me, being awful. fucking up
at grief.
puddles of wormhole backends, tunnel rats,
al'qaeda spelled backwards
hyper vigilance- determining finality of

panic,

bursts of inability to breathe- like the little
engine that could- those puffs of coal-clouds

without the windows being open i would
die of pollution.

not for the plant food i swallowed today
or the rubbing alcohol on my freshly

wounded body parts,

but because of the exhalation of um way too much carbon dioxide

when i have too much oxygen in everything. CHOO-CHOO.
(btw, i'm insecure enough that i had to double check that we exhale co2 and inhale o, just like how i double check everything....and i found this a good read: http://www.quora.com/If-we-exhale-carbon-dioxide-and-inhale-oxygen-why-would-mouth-to-mouth-resuscitation-be-effective-for-a-person-who-is-not-breathing)

then, they stop. now what? find pain
some other way.

i dialed that texting-hotline and said
"i can't stop breathing fake breath."
"how long have you been doing this?"
"my whole life."

panic disorder is having panic attacks and
in between those living in fear
of going outside
by myself because
everything hurts my goddamn feelings and i could

be fucking crazy in public if i'm not careful.
and than i'll go on to convince myself, effortlessly: "i'm not really panicking, i'm just

making myself look that way because i'm an attention fiend."

a strange dog

growled at me for the first time in my life yesterday.
she wasn't even looking at my face...more like
my center- which is a black heart.
this is what she said, translated into my familiar

english: "DOGKILLER! DOGKILLER! MAY YOU BURN IN HELL!"

panic disorder seems to be the
exception to the stigma of mental illness-
everyone is saying they've

got panic attacks these days. (this leads me to

my dissertation titled "the mentally ill complex".)

then again, everyone totally claims they have ocd (actually,
they say THEY ARE ocd itself). at this point, i'm pretty sure

i've got ocd rammed up my ass too
and that eating disorders *are* ocd- the smartest mental disorder.

furthermore, people say they totally have bipolar- WHAT?-
you do not want that shit. they say they've got manic moments

all the time.
which offends me, except

it is true that a lot of people are fucked for life
by the bipolarity of their neuron functions

so you never know. they could have one of the bipolar spin-offs,
although i don't get their non-bipolar diagnoses,
because they are *treated by the same exact meds*.

i call my personal dichotomy my "chemical complex".
btw dyk-there isn't a single fucking complex listed
on wikipedia today that isn't about

wanting to fuck my parents or stepparents or
killing my children. so far that i've read.

whether i like it or not i have all of these in the
disgusting fucking portmanteau of my psyche.
like *sybil*.
everything comes out depending on where i am
and where my head is at.

fakefakefakefakefakefakefake like sybil
and her psychoanalyst bitchlover, and the okayness

of hiring a little girl to be tortured in the movie.
SHE WASN'T ACTING. SHE REALLY WAS BEING
TORTURED. SHE PROBABLY KILLED HERSELF.

I MIGHT AS WELL

WATCH THAT SCENE IN JURASSIC WORLD
WHERE THE BRONTOSAURUS DIES IN SLO-MO AGAIN

AND THINK ABOUT MY DOG DYING,
EXCEPT NOW HE REALLY IS DEAD

AND HIS GHOST HASN'T BARKED AT ME FOR FOOD YET.

btw dyk again- the real sybil died alone and poor and didn't have
multiple personality disorder

but she was a sick fucking artist and she collected dolls.