dreaming of my old bed


every night i cry for hours over what it means for my body to keep going, agonizing endlessly. the deeper i think about what it means to be alive, to think if religion, any of it would be real for me and true, what that implies about my life, if my own way is not carved out of my flesh and blood, and the tunnel ends in my sutures, and there is some god that has been there the whole time. this is hell. i have gone to sleep many nights, begging over and over into my pillow to be dead. to die in my sleep. to give my life to someone who needs it. but there is no reprieve, there is no pressure that comes off my back. my perception is warped like that of an old porn video from 2009, washed out sour lens, smudged and surgically extracted, all i feel is pink pillow lace and pain, my clothes all fall off and all my body parts do too, and every cut made into my body becomes undone and i am kissed by a hundred thousand men until i am a little soft pile of flesh, too hot, and they all penetrate what's left of me.

when he pushes my face into the pillow, i just see a hundred dog crates all crying and barking, and im one of them, barking too in my dog cage. it is snowing, cold and barren and white.

i am so tired. i make myself my tea, and push food in my body, and crawl in bed and the weight of this suffering is so heavy i cannot move, like my wings sewn in are made of bags of rice, bodybags of putrefaction sloshing around, making rain sounds as i wrestle and curl in on myself. the hate and need in me, is threaded and implanted in me. divinely bestowed. it makes my mouth swell up and salivate, and i begin to cry. i would rather my life be given to someone who deserves and needs it. i weave my fingers through the teeth of combs, i touch my palms to be licked and cleaned by holy fire, i do not wish to touch, i do not wish to live. what heaven, what peace exists for an angel born out of sickness, twisted and mauled by torture, what heaven exists for something born out of the dirt and sucked off mausoleums.

it would mean nothing to go to heaven. it would mean nothing to go to hell. stitched into me, pulsed and pushed inside me, there is no rush of blood, there is not any flutter of breath, there is sanctum in being tortured, serenity in that familiar pain, there is divinity in pulling on my neck and throat, there is a crown of thorns pushed inside me, and there it has stayed. i was not born of any woman, i was born in the earth, soft and rain soaked, born sick, born in side i crawled until my knees and palms wept and pissed blood all over the carpet, the cemetery dirt, the lamp posts, the lantern, the cross, the bedsheets, the comforter, the walls, the underbelly of his chest, where it's so heavy, and all over me. i am so sick.

no matter how his eyes close, how he plants his lips against my cheek or turns my face, how i turn and twist and writhe, i am so small and young, i am so beaten and sore and raw, and it hurts everywhere. and it is mocking me. he brings this world crashing down upon me, he opens my eyes and then smashes them out with the corner of the highchair, and i throw up everywhere.

every morning, i put the veil over my head and body, and i slump into a heavy holding of myself. i become a cathedral, broken and callous, and i drag myself up. i wash this body, and feed it, and keep it in a state of animation, for no gain, for no reason. i stand at nothing, look at nothing, speak at nothing, give myself up for nothing. i am limp, and ungrateful. and in that, i will never forgive myself. and no one will forgive me. and i will push my face into my stomach, and feel sick forever.