undressing

I am a full born hypochondriac. But I cannot breath. But I am real. But I cannot breath. But I am real, not real, real. I am?

I try to suffocate in cigarette smoke so I can fake surviving life, it's sick, I know, fucking sick. I float on dirty, grey clouds of my dirty, grey thoughts, where is the sun? I am a product, property, proprietor of my own demise, I cannot see further than where I stand. Where do I stand? I am the broken shards on your floor, reflecting your distortions. I want to, I want to, I want to - WHAT? I am loose on the edges, my thoughts are distracted like dead symphonies and the shadows of bright lights burnt out. I drown like vegetable in oyster sauce, I am my own peace and my own war. I drown because I want to, I shut myself because I feel safe twisting myself inwards, I stop caring because it takes
too
much
effort
and I put enough into learning how to breathe like an average human being. I am trying to be average. I find delight in little things like chocolate and favourite lines of a song, but that's about it, no more. I want what I want, but I know nothing of it, I will go wherever this confusion leads, I don't care much of precise directions. I swallow gutfulls of lies and emit twice as much, I don't even tell myself the truth anymore - you are still beautiful.

Oh, his jawline, his fingers,
the trail of his spine beneath his skin, I don't miss you, I swear. I see you, I see you there, but you are out of reach, maybe it's better that way, maybe not, it's not, it is. The coldness, the cold, it's burning because I have no correct sense, not since the phase of you, what I left myself in. I wallow, I fall, I hide behind walls and pillars and doors of what was once -. I dream nothing and it is beautiful, I wish to be this way forever, I don't wish to, I want to change, but where are the emotions? Eyes cracking like dry leaves, I am dehydrated of my own humane feelings, I dilute myself with self-satisfaction that is non-existent,
I thirst,
I thirst,
I thirst for what's gone.
And that's you,
that's me,
what's me?
Bleak, trodden and
splashed 

around 

like 

background 

paint.

I am used to control, I am
losing control. 

I watch things like rainbows, water and time seep through me and I am overwhelmed by things I can't claim my own. Like bitten fingernails and hair clogging up drainpipes. I never thought razor blades beautiful, anyway. I kid myself in fixing jigsaw puzzles when I don't even see logic in piecing breakable things together, like when he
gluedmeup
and danced me through the best hurricanes.
Yes, I tried to do it, I tried to, I had sex with it,
it made me bleed, yes,
the razor blade made me bleed.

I see you, I see you, I don't want you. You are like the stink in Birkenstock shoes and rusty diary keys, I would love to keep you, but there are things people throw away along with torn pages of a chapter. I understand myself lesser each day, and I think I no longer like mysteries. Lurking behind every blink, every step, every twitch of my finger, I can hear it, I hear it. It is the sound of it calling. The sound as hollow as its name, as gross as its meaning.

It will swallow me whole and I want to let it.

Emptiness. Take me.

I have run out of seconds and
third times are never lucky for me.