or something. just a pounding
of words, nonsensical
and rhythmic. pounding, pounding, like my heart in
my chest at moments of extreme fear or joy or orgasm.
like the first glimpse of my newborn sons, the faces
of people i love, words, words, words.
they are my downfall, my weakness, my addiction. i use
them to bring me down or to prop me up. "your posts
are complete unto themselves," i am told. "i never have
anything to add." and so it is that i find myself isolated
and feeling as though i'm posting to empty news groups
again, screaming, screaming, moaning and tearing at
myself to get the words out before i choke on them.
it's always in the middle of the night that i feel this way.
if ever i were to kill myself, it would be in blackness. at
night is when i start screaming inside. at night is when
all the words that have ever been hurled at me collect
themselves into a mass of hate and pummel me into
yes, i make mistakes all the time. yes, i hurt people with
coldness and indifference. yes, i say one thing and mean
another, yes. i fail. yes. i give in to temptation and yes,
yes, yes, i regress into an angry, sullen child with whom
no one wants to play.
i'm afraid to sleep. monsters eat at me. i'm so tired i can
hardly type. i crave sleep, but instead i turn on the computer
in this too-hot room and light another cigarette and scream
into the void.
because after all, i am complete unto myself.
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