watch October change

"You're a soft, kind girl."
 
Instantly, I felt the earth in my eyes corrode into the newest hallucination of me. Coiled awkwardly in a tight silver urn that's been decorated with the crudest metaphysics of my liquidated anger. Tell the dead all the collected rage in me has burnt out, and I don't have the heart in me to write post cards to a summerland that still hasn't accepted my application after all these years. There's no passion. No fire in me to deny that I'm well aware my mother sold my soul the day I was born for the very fix I'd kill to feel pumping alexithymia clouds into my viens right at this unrelenting, unapologetic moment of denied clarity. I'm twisting; gnarled on the porch praying to empty bottles. Don't stop. Don't you ever fucking stop. It's a sick mantra of sorts. Delving it's twitched fingernails acutely into the most mailable fractions of my battered skull cavities every time the sunrise dips past the onyx of my stifled comfort. The moon refuses to look at me this time of year. Like clockwork, like my daughter. Like the seven pounds I've lost from this wretched body resenting me. I have many secrets and they keep me weak. Jean jacket, short untamed hair, tell them I was unique in my third eyed pursuit of something more. I bleed with the weather; Texas thunderstorms and hurricanes on the brink  of anemia. Cold. They call us Capricorns cold and unemphatic and I'm reinventing stereotypes at its worst. As above and so below. Watch me vomit on everything I once believed was eternal in desperate urgency to understand why I've been referencing spiral dynamics and crossword puzzles defining the wrong kind of pain like I'll find who I was at nineteen. Keep going. Don't stop. Don't you ever fucking stop. Light a candle for me tonight. Ask your God why I'm so consumed with thoughts of greyhound buses and roaches that feed on dishes I'm afraid to become familiar with. Ask your God why I can't find the beauty of confusion as light in this illusion. I won't die, not tonight, not in this prison the previous mes created in vain of Saturn pretending I'm not the violin this identity dares to scream against in silence of my forced optimism. I've become a kind woman of folklore in the form  of dreams we never speak of.