i sat on the riverbed,

water flowing at speeds

measured with numbers

i've neer been told about.

the current,

flowing like the blood on my veins,

and only then am I made aware of my humanity,

because the river may spill its water

and still remain a river,

but my blood may spill

until there's none left

and I am but a human,

instead a display of what once was and now remains,

beaten down by none other than father Time.

"oh, there's a poem to be written here,"

-said the one who didn't know any better,

but this isn’t my place to talk,

so instead i remain in silence

and allow for the soil and rocks to speak,

for corrosion has beaten them down

and time has made them wiser

than any of those “meatsacks” could ever 

aspire to be.

“you don’t get it, it’s fine art”

-i say as I slam my head into the keyboard

and let the words come before me

i know what i’m doing

in the same way I know myself,

the number to that equation totalling zero,

not as a lack of will but of time,

as time’s passage is of speeds uncontrollable,

leaving myself unable to be me

but instead an amalgam of others 

and their impact on my psyche,

leaving of me a shapeless body of electrical current

trying not to come unsewn at every step.

and suddenly,

“i know you so much it’s scary”,

not as a manifestation of fear

but that of weaponized incompetence,

because

“i know you so much” and it isn’t scary,

now it horrifies me,

so now “i know you so much”

i yell at you on the street

and pummel lead into you

if you get too close to me.

and shapeless bodies of electrical current

just happen to turn me on so much,

“so what do you say we meet up

and i could make you feel good,

but don’t you dare tell anyone

for corrosion won’t be the one to destroy you.”

and now you’ve ruined my river.

now i look into the water

and only see myself reflected,

my legs bruised, my hair pulled,

and my throat all used up,

so now i can’t help

and watch the water go

and desire to leave with it,

because a death of a caliber

as raucous as this

would still be more peaceful

than any of the lives

you’ve put me through.

and now my notebook

struggling to keep 

all my ideas together

after so long

and so much,

finally gets to rest,

and to think i wrote so much

and now 

my biggest fan

is my therapist,

his looks of approval 

being looks of concern

while he reads my newest poem.

and suddenly

he turns the page

and the words don’t make any sense

and I let myself bleed out

all over the pages

and I am no longer

sitting in front of him

but I now exist all through the room

like a poorly made James Joyce

resting only in fucked up literature

for those insane enough to analyze.

because i like to think that

art is pure,

but a one-second grindcore track

says more for me

than you ever have in your whole life

and now I enter the museum

and slam my head through 

the most expensive painting

not in envy but in performance

because even if 

tears stream down my face

you’re still living my dream life

and I view you as high as a god for that

but now the church is burning down

and evacuation is imminent

and still I stay inside

and tie myself to the wall

and allow the building

to crash into me,

because i’d rather die

and surround my resting place

with life and art and nature

than live lifeless and meaningless

(and grey isn’t one of my good shades)

and I can’t believe I forgave you,

but your face is still shaped like the crook of my neck

and the stars spell your name out

and your face is burnt 

into the screen of my phone

and the stars spell your name out

and my veins look like your heartbeat

and my reflection in the water looks like you

so I spill myself against it

trying to forget you

but I only forget myself

because I know you better

than I know myself

and as much as I despise it,

now I’m back at the river

but I’d give everything

not to be at the river

so I go up to the nearest rock

and rub my wrists against it

as hard as I can

so I can bleed out and stain it

and leave my mark on this earth

but it doesn’t work

because my skin is as soft as porcelain

so i head to the river and 

dunk my head in and hold my breath

and try to drown

as if i’m choking myself to death

with my mother’s umbilical cord

like a piece of inert matter

wanting to go back to its creator

but water flows right through me

and I am dry as when I started

when I stick my head back out

so I slam my head as hard as I can 

into the biggest rock I can find

and think about all the people I hurt

as I hit myself harder and harder

and think about
all the people I changed for

as I put all my feelings aside

as I live for me and not for them

as I hit myself harder and harder

and I reduce myself to a meat sack

as if only in that format 

do you find me pretty

my mother says

“you are the temple that I worship”,

but there is no temple here

but a burnt and broken down cathedral

but there is no temple here

but a brutalist building

with way too many unauthorized visitors

but there is no temple here

but the mouth of a poisoned river

with rocks stained with blood

and human sediment running against it

but there is no temple here

but only the remains 

of something that once was

and I hope to god you remember

because I sure as hell don’t

because who the fuck 

would remember

when there’s only 

burnt grass and ashes

and blood all over the floors

and dumb lazy memories

and an ever-so-slightly

human silhouette.