junky

a few more glances. a few more hours. i'm a junkie for your love.

the hours, heavy, dragging, ripping at my bones making me smaller and smaller until i disapear into darkness. the sweat beading on my forehead.

i am growing paranoid. and sick. diseased with hidden sensations. nausea. a kind of morse code on my bones. tapping. tapping. that fucking tapping. my flesh, widdling away in scrapes and scratches. and peeling. from my muscles and bones. old bones.

these bloddy noses and a hym from somewhere (i can't recall) in my head. playing. over and over. making me crazy.

and angels. and devils. across the room. all sorts of dreams and hallucinations.

a nightmare sense of reality. a growing weight on my shoulders. their eyes on me. increasing in dozens.

the framing of the photographs, taunting, misguiding. misleading.

and the empty. so fucking empty. for hours, in weeks and days. i'm losing track of time.

and the lights. nervous lights. strobing. somewhere else. i'm in a room. a white room. painted arid walls and crawling with insects and spiders.

curling. i lay on the floor. in piles of my own excrement and urine. happy for the warmth.

still the tapping. the fuckking tapping.

and the cops. the bastard pigs. coming. trying to break in the goddamn door.

the rooms, the locks. i am in the back bedroom. crazy. i am drooling. in piles and pools and oceans. trying not to wet my pants anymore.

i throw up on the floor. twice. maybe three times. i can't remember. someone's lying.

the men. they keep shouting.

i'm closing the blinds and crouching. in the back. the black. a dark closet.

i tear off the door.

i am claustrophobic. i don't remember being claustrophobic. let me hide. let me die.

i'm tearing my clothing from my body. leaving it in piles. for combustion.

soon. it will all be over.

2002-10-01 | 4:43 p.m.
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