The second I’m alone is when the snow falls in my mind
Covering the tops of branches, the trees all highlighted
The birds sing about the end times and fly to safety
They know what’s about to happen in the forest
The visuals go black and white and I can’t feel the ground
I feel a pull towards a growing idea that I don’t want
It’s a mixture of a fear and a want for myself
A car honks at me and I’m back in my body
The grey blue skies showering my windshield with rain
A return to the routine, the living, the now
How can I possibly complain about endless suffering
When my life has a built in inevitable ending
A return to the routine, the living, the now
My muscles and my bones hurt at thirty four
Too many years on borrowed time
A return to the routine, the living, the now
I feel a pull towards a growing idea that I don’t want
It’s a mixture of a fear and a want for myself to die
The roads are littered with road side gravestones
I always speak to them as I drive by the spots they died
Maybe when it happens, I won’t be alone
The grey light from outside spills into the room
Adding more shadow and unease to the corners
Piles of dirty dishes haunt me like ghosts
I can hear them talking in the other room
I wish someone else would talk to me
A single phone call would let me move my body
The dust build up could dance in the television light
As I stand up to speak about how I’m doing okay
While I pace around the room, a tornado of dust eating me alive
My body a monolith in the living room, where no living happens
My flesh so rotten soap’s scent fades in seconds
There is no pleasures, only moments of escapism
Do I cut my arms up like in my teenage years?
With the hopes of feeling this body once again
Do I ever want to be me again?
My feet are cold twice, the heat is broken, and I’m scared
Is god supposed to help you in these moments?
Is all of my suffering my own fault because of free will?
Can this happen to a normal man?
Have I been living in an abandoned body for years?
Is it the same as the abandoned houses
That used to surround the small town I’m stuck in
The furniture inside of me is orange and brown
Covered in mold and dust with cat scratches on the sides
There's always moonlight coming in the windows
And a fog that lingers in the rooms that smells like country roads
The carpets are soaked in blood, it gushes under your feet
Filling in the spaces between your toes with my wrist liquid
A wind blows in the window and the white curtains point
The bathrooms at the end of the hallway, and the lights on
You’re more than welcome to step inside
It’s been lonely in here for quite some time