Die alone.

The storm outside was blasting the life out of the ground. Something seemed different. The sky looked furious. The zephyrs seemed to snap at the sun. The storm called me to come outside. People were dying. The sun said to me, "You must be a masochist for thinking I could love you. Invest in some bandages."
I shut my door and went to sleep. Because who could ever love unlovable me?

Outside, the sky raged and fumed. It cast down angels and raised demons on high. Rifts split open and time melted.
And I began to wonder if love was alive. A lie.

The angels began to sing hymns of hate ad nauseum. Holy chants had never felt so blasphemous.
The storm began to fester and seethe like an angry wound that rolled in from the sea.
I woke up from my slumber and looked outside. People were dying. I laughed. But no one laughs at God. Not even angels.

I sat down at my desk and opened a letter.

A letter to my future self --

Your past self ripped down the heavens and tore the clouds asunder to fix you.
And though I can't know for certain how it all turned out, please remember, we were created with the intention of being happy. Not to watch the world wither away to dust. So please, be happy. For me. For you.

I tore up the letter and fed it to the sky. Maybe it's better if I die alone.

Untitled #8

I can't explain this state that I'm in. This state of existence, of terrible being.
You knew that I was broken pretty bad. You left me in silence.

And the reckless abandon that we had. You ran outside without your shoes and told me not to follow you.
Of course.
What a curious place we had found in that greenhouse in the yard. There were lights all around, silvery gray. Whispers of ghosts gone by. Small tendrils crawled their way out of a pot in the center of the room.

The petals unfurled, revealing a

fuck this shit.

What the fuck am I doing here? I hate this place. It's repulsive. The people are fucking pricks with no regard for anything except their grande no-fat lattes and their fake and bakes.
God, this place.

I can't explain this state that I'm in. I could tell you, but the telling gets old.
I fight with myself every day. I fight. I spar. Just jump on a bus. Go somewhere. It's not like you really need to do any of this --
NO. FUCK YOU. I DO.
This place doesn't allow for such freedom. Such happiness. No. It's a dark thing, a ravenous, hungry beast that sucks any scrap of anything less than superficial happiness out of you. It just doesn't lend itself to that. We aren't significant. Just little tin soldiers beating some little tin life, pretending like it matters. We're just floating in space.
I can't understand why we keep whispering when we mean harsh, brutal things.
You're not fooling anyone.
We should be screaming our lungs out all the time.

They say that no good art came from happiness.

No good art seems to be coming from anything anymore.

Spilling.

Hang on, help is on the way.