I'm detached. Cold, lost, lost in longing.
Eating disorder, God of my life, I miss you.
Coldness, I miss you.
Fear, I miss you.
Concern, oh sweet words and concern and power, I miss you.
I'm aching, a longing void of nothing, I want to die.
Die in quiet solitude of nothing, of no nourishment.
I want to decay, I want to be swollen with power and control.
Swollen and small, pulsing and bruised, but ever so small. I feel like I am cold. Cold from the inside out. I wish thoughts alone could give you what you wanted. I'm more disordered than I've ever been.
Men are coming. Men with no faces who come to peel away my skin, the layers of lies and sin. I cower and shy backwards, terrified with who I am and who I'm not. I'm overly concerned with the lack of /space/. There is nothing negative in my space, nothing concave. I bulge outwards and I want to tape down my breasts until they are reversed inwards. I want to not be sexual. I want to starve away the swelling of a body that got out of control.
I guess I feel high.
Smoke pours out of my mouth and I drive. Rain splatters the windshield and I imagine it is the blood of fallen angels. I have fallen, I have fallen.
I'm swollen and fit to burst. Oh, surely I could let all my blood drain away and I would still be too heavy to carry. I would still be heavy in a world of fairy bones and ethereal light. I guess I feel high.