A monochromatic three weeks

Three weeks of intense
Incense
Words make no sense
Immense
Bodies encased in cement
Ease into the silence

Then CRACK!
Two colors commence

Break in form

Form and function, always. What's left to lose? Nothing. So much to gain. I run, I spread my wings, I try to fly always. Down, maybe, they take me. But first and foremost, I will fly. Fuck yes. This is not the right tone. It lacks fortitude. My face is pressed into a mold I forgot about, but it's still there and I can feel it on my nose. Tomorrow I break free. Free as I wanted to be. I don't know if I want that. But of course I do. Those shackles are too small for these wings.

Better things to do

I have real things to do, real things to fix, real parts of life to perfect. I have real people to help. Real real real lost in a swirl. Beasts in a corner tapping at the bars I could swear I just installed. I don't have the energy to keep you in a corner, you huge hideous raping pillaging imaginary almost real bit of nothing--and everything--and nothing. Remember, remember the fifth of November and what it did to you. It destroyed you and locked you in a cage. Why is this not a happy week, oh week of all weeks why why why death down in the stupid stupid pit. The pit. Stay down there and stop growing wings. I have better things to do than fight your pathetic lifeless form. It has no meaning anymore. The real form is destroyed. Stop. One day I will grow wings instead. And you will stop beating at the back of my head trying to get to the front. Seriously. Escape out the back so I can forget; I've left the door open. I have better things to do.

It's too late for this

It's late and I'm tired and I'm remembering things again. This happens when I can't sleep, I guess. It all melds together now, and I can't remember who did what and which and how many and if it even mattered at the time. You've all become one oppressive beast who never wrote me letters, even when I bought you flowers. I tried so hard. I covered up the bruises dutifully, and whisked myself along, on drugs, in holes, hiding, pretending to be beautiful. All of you. I still feel the terror, and I can't get away from it. You're still so big. I have this list of reasons...it's long. I can't keep it, because it hurts. I still keep it. This is stupid. I left once. I want to be sorry that I wasn't good enough. But that's wrong. I want to be sorry that I never hit you back. I want to go back and rail on you. I want to destroy you, your worlds, everything, so you can't be this huge oppressive beast. All of your incarnations. Shit. It's late. Write me a goddamn letter.

wet

The grunter's sick revolted red echoes off the sky in blurred homogeny. It tears at your skin, burrowing under. Industrial block walls press in on your face, clog your windpipe, drown your lungs. But that is alright. No one ought to breathe here.