The Words I Wrote About You Makes The Thoughts I Wished With You Seem Shameful

Franz Kafka, 1912

the treasures of my life i prioritize as a pupil of a dead party god or dionysus, id love to live in nothing but sex, wine, parties, getting high, falling in love, writing nonsense stories and telling lies, fight for my own right for enjoyment, lose my mind and maybe find it tomorrow

i live in silence as a pupil of a living solitude god if theres even one at all

he stares at me like im adored and i know his eyes arent even for meeting my own, i should not look at him like he can be mine, and i should not already be his

a walk at night, and i was looking up with her

and she said "the moon is so pretty tonight"

and i agreed and said they must be related

and i forgot most of what happened after that

god how i crave whatever the hell franz kafka had going on with melina

its horrible when a person dies but its even worse when their art dies

and i fall in love with people who never fucking existed

i still bite my lips when i am stressed, and no habit of mine has ever died. i pick it up and i carry it around, another weight that weighs nothing on how i live only how im seen. my nails are always short and i still havent found my nail clippers, why cant i stop-not a question.

i still get excited when i hear my phone knowing its not you

:(

I need to be so close to her I can't feel her but am her. We merge like greek mythology referencing soulmates, my hands trace up her neck to the back of her head and I hold her chin like she belongs to me. We kiss. I no longer think and no longer am.

i consumed you the way i consume media, i dont know if i loved you enough for the cannibalism metaphor