this chair is always empty

This chair is always empty. This page is always blank. The skin a restless patina of want and itch, slipping through the sea. The clouds are gray, the wind is a hammer, my heart a dish best tossed out. I sit, wrapped in the wind and my endless failings, watching as the day is dragged into its grave and buried alive. Skull crushed by the stone grim press of this heavy handed heaven. Buried in birdsong and the coming going gone. 

I get it. There’s a lot not to like. This hollow hearted constant self immolation, the incoherent trail of crumbs, the unyielding rage that runs through me in violent torrents. I am needy and profane and endlessly mercurial. And unmedicated and unnarcotized I am all but rudderless, too volatile to readily engage safely. Writing isn’t helping at all.

Empty gestures and half measures. Insults, sabotage, and souvenir seekers. My trust has been burned down and the fields beneath have been salted dead. Every day I wake to my heart literally thick and aching, the early morning all soft moans and goddamns, the whole fucking world rushing back in to remind me of its well earned contempt. The wearying indignity of having no help available, no insurance, and no respite from the machinery have cut me enough this time around that I know I’m not getting better again. Buy me a shiny, tell me I’m pretty. That’ll fucking help.