if i go through withdrawals when a person doesn’t talk to me as much is that a sign of love?
what do i do when all of my connections feel fleeting or flimsy on my end, even those i have with my own mother?
what does it mean when i sit by the phone waiting for them to respond?
i fantasize that every kind stranger i meet has secretly fallen in love with me, am i lonely?
do i lose value as a potential partner if i cannot feel sexual pleasure?
is it wrong to feel devastated that i am doomed to be a temporary fixture in my best friends life?
i haven’t been able to feel romantic love in years, did something inside of me break?
when will i cease to exist in a constant state of catabolic mayhem?
when a caterpillar is inside the chrysalis, does it dream?
is living vicariously through romance between fictional characters a valid coping mechanism?
what do i do if ive become so disconnected from myself that ive even lost understanding of what my sexuality is?
i could easily kill myself right now and that doesn’t really scare me, is this a bad sign?
how do i die metaphorically, and be born anew literally?
is my relationship with the universe parasocial?
is my understanding of myself superficial?
is suicidality contagious?
is anyone out there?
she touches me and we are shocked to find my intimate areas thoroughly rotten
soft and jelly-like
my sex sloughs off of my body and hits the floor, slimy liquid landing heavily and melting into the carpet
she rests her hands on my breasts and they rupture, deflating as putrefied fluid dribbles down my body
she attempts to make love to the cavernous void left between my thighs and i feel nothing but insertion and movement
she ends up working herself to completion while i sit on my knees in bed beside her, watching her function so well
i find myself wishing to be like her, ramrod straight and pulsing with blood
the punchline arrives a couple years later, and i’m curled up on the floor of the bathtub, steaming hot water pelting down from the shower head onto my shivering frame
all that and i still don’t know what it’s like
sword in sheath did not make the blade mine
i finger hopelessly at a harp with no strings, desperate to pluck out a single note from the empty space
it offers me nothing but thick blood and a deep fear of dark nights and solo travel
thanks, i guess