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.