I study the necrotic patches plaguing the meadow and bury my face on the stiff blades of grass avoid the star’s radiance the lyrebirds disorient me louder chirps and sounds reminiscent to that of distorted screeching those of agony and of lust and will terrible will I miss the self that I was the day before, but before is now and now is tomorrow for
tomorrow was the said day I was going to be alive
I mourn the self for the self was I, and I am the only thing keeping me alive that is through
the little things like learning that I am chemically imbalanced which is why I vividly

Envision an emerald green canyon, as tall as you can see though it is not covered with greenery
shrubbery or anything of value not even emeralds, a metaphorical or literal canyon
A pointed peak the canyon it blinds like white snow yet it is eternally dusk and the wind
sings soft melodies you are your father the distance between you and the self proliferates at which I stand above, not because I accomplished anything or climbed it
rather I was placed on there without experience or knowledge of scaling heights let alone a fucking canyon he taught me about cannons and how you never aim at something unless you intend to kill you shouldn’t kill the self you will not mourn, you will only choke and feel tough inside a couple of coughs and changing the topic would work instead of I’m off to kill myself I have no rescue team no resources, I’m on counted time, yet I am expected to climb down safely, as though the wind isn’t urging me to sacrifice myself to some ancient god as though my mind was set on being there in the first place

If there were a place I’d rather be it would be a library, see everyone is dead and not the literal sense but the sense that we are all erased like those present are those giving gifts the type of gifts that say, we know you like reading here is this fuck ass smut book, man, that you don’t give a shit about because I didn’t pay attention to the fact that you would have killed yourself the other night you watched the screen flicker and wave little lights droning and droning the tunnel is dark it’s far quite distant from my self on the other side I see an embryo far away from a safe sylvan scene

Grieving in a crummy house / Laid on the bed is a cloud / Curled like a shrimp, bed wetter / Calling him that makes it better / We used to go out and kill / We used to go out and find / Adventures, some have died, gone / Away to a steady pond / Some have found themselves a spouse  / Some have chosen the wrong crowd

You will be the man you need / Someday you will grow, thank me / Who is there to thank for this? / I am short of finding bliss / And I can only wish that / You are not my true blood / You only cry and whine / When have I sat and cried / Toughen up, kill a beast / When thinking happens least / I have killed a child / Was that the beast? / That was the point.

House constricts / Facing the / Colors click / Into place / Clarity

Finger nicked / Blood seeping / On pages / Of old tales / By old men / Erasure

it’s repulsive and not literary enough and not me enough I would have preferred something other than this I would have preferred comedies vivid comedies like those of Ernest Hemingway like being on Kilimanjaro and getting tired of writing
M<E<N used to be scholars making their deaths an ambiguous suicide or a horror incident
men used to adjust their balls and face you and tell you they repressed every thought of killing themselves or being empathetic because they are men and not women women are for the sake of use for pleasure and not beings at all, rather they are mothers, they are the tit for pleasure and sustenance, not for the sake of safe keeping and not for the sake of guarding men until men require women to open their eyes while

Look at what you have become / Purity dripped from your thumb / The red reflection wavers / My sanity crumbles, caves / Into meaningless living / Living, meaningless

Rugged oak crib cradle the kid
Shoddy scaffold cover the kid
Tight knit walls huddling around
Closing and closing and closing
Until everything regresses
Back to unstable cautious steps / forward to the inevitable while you know this is where you’ll go, your son faces you and tells you that you should have listened to him he told you that the world isn’t worth it because there is evil all around the world so you grabbed the loaded 45 ACP revolver choked the barrel grabbed the pillow snuffed the sound and sobbed sobbed like a woman because you realized that women are no longer surrounding you at all, not even in a passing or glaring way, because you sucked a barrel, and not that barrel, rather a barrel of ale but that ale that is bitter with the little floating chunks of cork and other shit like the way his brain splattered all around the baby’s crib it is like a Greek tragedy
everything is too late.

Holding the babe blood bathed I used a hand me down rag to clean the files of hate the files of loathing a son the files of loathing a babe our eyes burn as we see a self with tragedy a self of selves facing selves and admitting defeat I performed an unsuccessful brain surgery last night shredding the files of atrocities in every folder of my brain I tore off my insula yet I feel the house atomized the mirror mother awaken courage and view the self as a sarcophagus of a not so curs-ed curse specters of men linger phasing through the babe swat the specters away for the etches and scriptures of tragedy are vile and burning your corneas as you are staring at the blazing star is better than dying with dated plagues the canyon crumbled, sadly can’t look at the sun too long I still stare when I can but the blazing star nears me tansies and petunias writhe from the soil and stiffly protrude is my self simulacrum? I still look past the pale clouds and space but the void brings me nearer the flowers garden nursing thorns and aloe is my self simulacrum?

Edited by Annika Lee

Artist Statement: This piece wouldn’t be what it is without Annika Lee’s edits and suggestions. Thank you, Annika, for editing this piece as without your help it wouldn’t be as clear or impactful as the form it’s currently in! Though my piece is apparently doom and gloom, blooming is present in the entirety of the piece. This is meant to serve as a reflection on previous withering (in terms of the death of self and of subconscious attitudes) which seemed eternal or destined until the realization that the possible bloom, which was silently in motion, is at times insufferable and difficult to face. Disillusionment tends to blur the lines of reality and when simultaneously looking forward and backwards, it only seems to conjure up the idea of death or idleness. So one swats any sense of self (the good and bad) away, mistaking it for withering, yet it is done. Mourning is both the end of a life and the beginning of a life. The bittersweet feelings upon reflection are what allows us to grow, and mourning/grief (I believe) is best for depicting that there is no singular way of withering and blooming.