this has nothing to do with you. i love you.

i may no longer be able to use my dear and lovely happyfork as a place to express my feelings about
the people i love or
the people i hate or
the people who make me question every last thing i thought was real that had been the foundation for my very existence (and, apparently, was all a neatly organized packet of simple lies. bummer.), but at least i can still talk about, and while on, you, my lovely little reality-altering beauties. i am too attached, to everything. the world is too much with and snot has coated my face pretending it was cum.

x xxxxxx xxxx, any longer. xxxx xxxx has pinned me to the wall to wait for your sentence.
your obvious death sentence. or do you keep xxxxxxx because you're concerned? or you miss me?
we cool?
we cool.

this, my nihilism (right. yes. not REAL nihilism, but whatever. close enough. fuck you.), is leaving me with a gaping, ripping, plastic-edges-flapping-in-the-hurricane-winds hole that sounds like a big fat nothing that rolls through and crushes everything between these dusty high-rise buildings into and UNDER the undulating pavement preceding stop lines. there's not even the high whine of the flat line anymore. that thing to let you know something WAS here and IS no longer IS no longer. it went away years ago, when i cared, for whatever reason. there's just nothing now. EVERYthing's been razed. first they came for my solidity... even my maniacal and utterly desperate laughter at how vastly ridiculous x xxx xxx xx. and my edges and bitter taste have become so much more sharp than i ever expected. no, more than that. it's more that it's all just eroded away to below the semi-transparent surface and i'm oozing out through whatever withered, silicon, gelled, purifying mess that's left. drinking to stay for now. sucking respite through an umbrella covered straw. where is my beautiful bartender? telling lies - beautiful lies - to the air, which is all they want, i'm sure. he didn't even like lime jello. what the fuck. i keep always coming back to him. maybe it's the town that haunts me with him. or the face of unmistakable truth. five years on now. five. such a deeply and widely unyielding human being. every toast is silently his.
every breath a conscious, pus-filled betrayal.

i haven't been able to face myself in a mirror for at least a month. he's not there, but my constant failure is. etched in and through the back of my head. twelve feet behind and projecting onto strangers walking too slowly.

now that i'm reconstituting in formalin, it feels more dizzy. finally, sad. especially when i stand up and nearly black out from the lack of pressure. i could cry my whole body out through my eyes. i really thought there was something i believed that was real. i thought i was right. you've won, though. there's nothing now. if you make me feel this way, i can't imagine how xxx xxxx xxxx in there - how terrifyingly xxxxx xxx must be. how black that hole is. and thus i drink the world into a slow turning where i can't focus my eyes on your glowingly beautiful face without a great effort. and i pretend you can't see as i can't see while you can. and i love borrowed things i have no right to love, knowing to expect xxxx in return.

lick lick lick the silicon. lick it. there's nothing better, i tell you.
my poor, bloody, precancerous esophagus. HAHAHHAHAHA.
i'm still licking along the serrated edge, waiting for a break.