Bed sleeps while hands clutch against machines. Sound of shots, legs of broken and heart of damned, and a faint taste of morphine tongues, tears of rainy cocaine through veins, and windows shining moonlight, killing white walls, and a bathroom in darkness greets. Hell through her eyes in rejoicing as she opens her life to bleed and get felt, as little dots cross her mind, and someone crawls of sheets, bugs in haze smile, and a smile, that smile of hers in mirrors that looks through as a skull with a skin, and little black lines where her veins should show.

She is as old as her struggles to breathe. In faceless blobs, in silhouettes of lights, they talk of her, through her, shoot her, they clean and feed her, they let her believe in herself, they let her pray in silence to play in floor with her brown teeth. Dirt flows, mud exists, and she swallows it to think of her plastic half, a door with no handles, with no lock, with no frame, but that stares like a door where a head could smash and break illusion and torment a dream, a wondertale of a life lived, forgotten by a second.

At night, she eats her tongue and stumbles across halls, slimy ropes abound, legs bruised and strangled into a submission, and a silence of a one pretended, one noticed, one avoided, one intended, a red light so far away, a look that could kill, a blob in a room, and another blob, and another, as she covers herself in magic and excites herself with isolation. No drugs hidden, no drugs inside, no drugs in mind, but she laughs outside, in shivering cold, and dizziness and a madness of falling against dead grass, she eats again and looks at stars and devises a plan to not be tainted anymore. She embraces immense happiness as a bite stings and dances against a cushion, staring at nothing, starting nothing, and feeling, and feeling, and then feeling.

Inside she lives again because faceless people, faceless in spirit and empathy, are back, her bed chews her hair, lines slide and poison sweetly, and this cut, and a next cut, are not like previous ones, but instead, are drenched in delicacy and nourishment, a cut to a heart like a cut in a face, a smile etched in trouble. And her legs are not broken anymore, her arms are not there anymore, her mouths are filled with drugs and someone drags her corpses across land, across steel cold floors, across a sky of electric meteorites. This is love what she feels and nothing else, her is a piece of her mind, a twisted finger, a desperate throat, a shot so close to her eyes, to her nose, to her stomach and a slaughter that seems like a show. It all floats, she floats above and feels whatever they order her to feel, and she leaps whenever they need her to leap, and she escapes whenever they need her to escape as long as she does not remember her name.


I like to write for some reason so I’m doing it here. I’ll try write something every day, and hopefully, get better at it.

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Eric S. V. B.

I like to write for some reason so I’m doing it here. I’ll try write something every day, and hopefully, get better at it.