and tricky got me in." told i was a born stand-up comedian. then i drive home, head flooded with suicidal "what if"s. am i really so hollow?what if

driving.two hands on the steering wheel and just a push.one second and gone. over. dead.spin out of control. feel the pulsating engine pistons hear the motor racing sounding higher and higher and faster and faster and foot on the pedal and almost to the floor and all that's needed is just one push just one sudden jerk in the hands and out of control car crash spiraling out of control and flipping over and head smashing against the steering wheel smashing against that pretty face and the lights go out and the tree is the airbag and i am dead.

fantasies of my own mortality ease the flooding. pivotal orgasm.

i know i fill my life with so much trivial garbage. i obsess over the current state of being and my focus derives from all the strings which i have cut.

scissors still in hand little death doll cute black boots laced to the knee and she can stand black skirt pushed by the breeze pout on her face and mind a sweltering jungle of so much churning emotion and the heat rises and her fists tighten and the scissors are cold and the scissors are cold and the scissors are cold when they hit. repeatedly. over and over. and over and over and fury and death and destruction and anger and hate and aggression and kill. kill.

why plagued so, marionette? its a simple life for you and you retie the strings just to sever again and the ropes get shorter and your leash gets tighter and you know well enough that the more you kick and scream and pull the tighter the collar and you built your own noose, fine craftsmanship and i'm sure mommy is proud to tears and killing herself at night and daddy absorbs himself in superficial purpose at work because god forbid, god forbid anybody sees one god damned thing that goes on here in your mind, honey.

what is wrong with me and why is this continuing the only variable being the lack of time to dwell? it doesn't hurt so much if you're not looking, dear. like getting the blood taken it always hurts more when you watch the needle break the skin and you watch the needle raise the skin and feel the tip burrow through your tissue and prick the vein and suddenly crimson pulses through with your heartbeat into a sterile clear plastic. suddenly it feels like you know yourself better, watching your blood rhythmically surge into a vile and it doesn't seem to affect you that a part of your life is washing away. plastic vile is to mirror is to truth.

and suddenly the temprament changes and the depression turns to the only part of the human emotion with any sense of vulnerability and suddenly you're searching for someone to fill your void and all you want is someone to hold and all you want is someone who can show you that you are purpose.

here is where i realize that i have no such lover to tell me that i'm necessary and my life's value extends past my own perception. and i allow my depressive nature seep out slowly into my interactions with others and suddenly i'm not so black and white and clean-cut and i become a bloody mess.

i have carried a child for nine months and given birth to a still-born. we are dead even before we've made it into the world. and it's hard. spreading those legs and going through labor and pushing into tears only to know that there will be no cry in the end and everything is silent and death has the last word and death has stolen the voice and i. have given birth to a carcass is all that runs through my mind.

all facets of the self conflicting and i sleep for days and my eyes are barely open to the world anymore and you've slowly edged your way towards the door. just before my eyes shut i've heard the click of the lock and the door is closed behind you. abscent from my life you are. gone in desertion. carrying the dead fetus blanketed in your arms.