maladaptive

There is no sky to be seen, just a ceiling textured with spider silk and sadness. There is no respite, just squalor and de facto servitude. The body goes without grace or dignity, only disfunction and decrepitude. Walking about upon open wounds, propped up on ache and ire, every other interaction sick and tainted with sorrow and fury. The music flips around on the floor, dying slow like each listener. The husk prison and prisoner.

It is all but gone. The futile pursuits of love and literature never more comical or absurd when every word is a bullet for these addled brains and feeble bones. Geezer dissolving from frame to frame, stop motion trickery and the ministrations of liars and cowards for comfort. Fool tripping over his own fate, the only one unaware of the slaughter they’d send him to. Oh dear steel, oh faithful lead, grant this filth a fine extinction. The night, the night, and no one but this awful mass of meat and murder for company. 

Too little, too late. All this want and all this longing, the animal and the abstraction sick with pain and want. No one here and no one home one look into these eyes reveals. Just the residue of righteous rejection and habitual betrayal, a bunch of names that should never have been learned, a lot of ink and breath that never should have been spent. Always mistaken, always the one to blame when it all goes wrong, eating shit and sin as the curses settle in. The cowardice behind each lie, the cruelty in every kiss.