I wonder if you spoke to the stars in the black sky, would they listen? If I were to confess all of the things welling up inside my chest if that would make a difference—maybe I’d tell them all of my secrets. The night sky blankets your eyes and your ears, yet you still see the flickering candles way up high and can hone into the nocturnal birdsong. Crickets are like a drum line, playing their repetitive beats only to be disturbed by the loud sounds of music of people who celebrate everything that there is to celebrate in life. I say I’m as black as my shirt, as black as the outside corridors and the broken concrete fences waiting repair. I am like my house, an unfinished product, a byproduct of cortisol and dopamine. Perhaps this is what melancholy feels like. The body still tunes in to pleasure, but the brain doesn’t ignite the same ways it used to. So this brings me back to the night sky… Why tell it anything if it’s too far away to hear me? Maybe it’s better to gently place this weight on the soaked grass and perhaps it will provide my resuscitating roses with adequate nutrition.
It’s so sad to be so intelligent yet to not know when to pull back. So disappointing to keep it so still—in many ways, you wish things would change—yet all remains like bones preserved at a dig site. Who would have thought it would be this fucked up to the point where it doesn’t mean anything (what do you represent?) or make any sense (how did this happen?) because it all means too much. I’m puzzled when I look in the mirror and see these brown eyes staring back blankly, but they are oceans of hurt. These eyes are like empty cups that nothing can fill or will dare to try—bottomless like the space between planets. She asked who sees what I write, I told her that I would, and she must pity me. She must think, look at that poor woman who hasn’t learned how to swallow sorrow the way we all have. She doesn’t know that sorrow ebbs out from a mouth that has said all she could only to have it fall on deaf ears. He wants to process, but he doesn’t understand that process is all that I do and so my thoughts change quickly, but I said I wasn’t fickle. Perhaps I lie because that’s what I want to be, intransient. I feel like this world made me to flow with suffocating feelings and with impermanence so I could never believe in a god that would go so deeply against my wishes, who further guides me to dig my grave. Desamparada is the word that captivates the feeling inside my chest, and I wish I could scream it out of my body but if she screams in the middle of the woods and there’s no one left to hear her, did she ever really scream?