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still fire.

by andrelikehell.

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1.
I just want this all to stop. I just want this all to stop. I just want this all to stop. I just want this all to stop ripping through my head. they bare teeth and claws of red. all their hands beneath the bed, reach for the home they never left. if you let yourself forget, they will take your life instead. have you heard a word I said? they won't stop until we're dead. god damn you all, you knew and never said a word. we will never rest assured until you get your just deserve. darling, please speak up. we can't hear you clearly. I know it can be hard to see yourself as our light shining. (are you there?) from the other side, this must all look like a movie scene (are you listening?) we need you to say something. if it brings back my family, I would tear through this fucking screen. writings on the wall, tell of screaming in the floor, an oncoming storm, and their ongoing war. bringing new meaning to "knocking at the devil's door", where turning our keys turned our time into waiting for shattered glass inside to scatter light but all we do is bleed inside this house built on words heavier than stone. you will never sleep alone in a place they called 'home' with a basement full of bones. and now, more than ever, it has become evident, ignoring warning signs written in wet cement has become decades of destiny manifest at your doorstep. wine stains the carpet where blood and intention met; dripping like paint from the sides of your picket fence. laughter as you pay penance for your father's debt. black water filled with lament is pooling in the basement. doors, eyes, and windows, all open without consent staring at the staircase as the star makes solemn descent. slowly the haloes have switched to a vibrant red. is that the back of your eyelids? is this all in your fucking head? fictitious and superstition. folklore with hallucinations. psychotic somnambulism. figment of imagination. history speaks for itself through generations. rearranging furniture and shaking foundations. these haunts won't stop as you plead for explanation. you took their family, so they came for our children. suffering a case of inhuman visitations. possesion of the mind as their final retribution. this house is alive with a lethal apparition. rotten, wooden, windows would better suit their vision. this is not a superstition. this is not hallucinations. stuck inside that fucking television, her hand was not imagination. And I know what I saw.
2.
pareidolia. 04:22
my mind, not a prison. more, a well overflown. filling roots with enough water to kill all it grows. so I composed the postscript of this hopeless letter, "I'm sick. yes, I'm sick. and I'll never get better." no roses, no hopes, no more faith in my feathers. I have seen myself floating face down in the river in every season of fair or inclement weather. bleeding from teeth that just won't fit together while screaming for help to hear echoes for answers. found this unfamiliar mirror reflection shift, splitting my image in different directions. consistent with glitches in frantic transmissions sent from an urgent sense meant for self made incisions. conflicting convictions, almost paralytic. too homesick and nauseous from swallowing vomit. left to endlessly drift helpless in this body more buoyant with slit wrists dripping viscous crimson. all I ever have left in my grip is double vision and crushed pen tips; more worthless shit as quick fix for this self destructive synapse distortion addiction. so, it's time to introspect; flip through my retrospect collective. pick apart the pieces of my limbs left in the trenches. ripped my heart out of my chest, not to brandish as a weapon; I just wanted to see myself a little less defenseless. learning love as nonexistent independent of conditions and now I sink, thinking, "...even air ain't freely given." please forgive me for living these parallax deformities beyond any and all recognition. but how did I miss the lesson when I tried so hard to listen? incessantly obsesses with theoretical exceptions, like "it's 'what you give, is what you get' isn't it? because I have fucking nothing measured with all that I have given." this is a call to my curtain. as it shall, and will, be written. such pathetic temper tantrums loosely deemed as 'composition' with kaleidoscopic exposition as I scratch and pick at every stitch I ripped into my worn and withered skin from before I tore the manufactured fabric of existence by too badly bending every spectrum of perspective in straining my eyes for horizons and sunsets as rain wears away at the edge of this cliff. all the while, followed by an inharmonic resonance emitted from the depths that wraps itself around my neck and holds my breath at every step as the pressure caves my chest. I might be the next body they find in the forest, contorting the words the words that I swore in line four like worms will conform to a corpse washed ashore. this is torture, I'm sure. but I'm sick and want more. sick of feeling like I'm never getting better anymore. and writhing back and forth on bathroom floors as my remorse begins to coarse through every vein and pore for mornings I let adoration of my storm twist and turn my sad little story from 'an exit performance' into 'some sort of accident'. now, I glance back at the past to keep the cold of the shattered, stained glass within grasp when there is still fire in my lungs from screaming out over the static like the last gasps from a head wrapped in plastic. fixed, prosthetic tourniquet of pressure cracked, post traumatic stress gaps in synapse that I scribble into syntax as I feel my neck snap and I spill through the collapse, I fill every blank page with the color of my casket. but, to be exact, it's like a match stick in a flash flood of dirt and mud; dark and black enough to contrast your shadow cast from six feet above until even your outline shines brighter than the light sent from the sun. and with a subtle, sudden gaze into the waves of colors run, as the remains of that reframed display fade, give way, and come undone: I see, in pages stained, all of the rain that washed away the blood in the same way now I only see the pain for what the pain has done to shape, create, and reconstruct, a somewhat makeshift recitation of the days, the names, the faces, the graves, that stayed an afterimage burned in my brain and I am sick of feeling like it will never go away. so, less a well. more, a wilted bouquet grown around a birdcage, now blackened by flames, where I once heard the melodies sang every day. but "those unheard are thine sweeter" anyway. so if I have to speak it plain and put my prayer in common language: I don't know what to fucking do and nothing changes. but I do know that no one would trade me places when you, too, would be sick of the look on your faces.
3.
there is something dead in the water. there is something dead in the water. there is something dead in the water. there is something dead in the water and I can feel it pulling me under. stay wind, this here is godless ocean. day ten, it's time to set revenge in motion. we sail for a foreign shore. all along the coasts, men and beasts of wars, wars, wars. what makes you so sure you can fight for what I'm fighting for when all the folklore you adore has worn away a part of me I never thought I had before. while my remorse took on distortion with a corpse pulled to the ocean floor. so you'll forgive me if I ignore your little stories, but I will keep on fighting my way and you can keep on fighting yours. so, let's explore the origins of war, starting with how I know suddenly no one gives a fuck about me at all anymore. I wear their jealousy as jewelry and its so flattering but I'm tired of their laughing and how it only seems to turn my skin green. why does this only ever happen to me? looking back at memories they seem so happy chasing anyone or anything and I've become something I don't want to be: drowning in misery, chasing something I have never even seen. this you won't take from me. you just might see, I will chew through ropes and rip through binds to take back what is mine. goddamn right, crazy lies in my eyes and in my mind. the first time I've seen clear in my life and you can cross that line and stay with me. Or, you can fuck off. this is no love story; another glass of bitter apertif. this is a threnody for glory fading into obscurity. making sense of the sea and how she sings beautifully a melody that haunts my dreams. and every night I fall asleep, I wonder if it remembers me. (I still want to breathe underwater).

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released August 5, 2022

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andrelikehell. Indianapolis, Indiana

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