the lightning bolts that love his heart

This isn't fucking art. This is rage. Seething energies. Rushes of green underneath my skin. Reverberating.

Why does it come, over and over, leaving me spent. And the rain comes down, and it doesn't even catch on the window, or make me smile at all. I want to rip apart everything I am not a part of. I am back on the outside of everything, in a single moment, eternal through the striking hours. And I am mad, because I want to feel. The whole problem: conduit, colour, cage. It cuts through me, fucking m. I want to feel, and share, and survive.

This isn't art. Don't come through with those expectations in your eyes. You strangle me. It's still here, boiling, and low light.

And, see, I understand—I am not blind to my malice. I keep my eyes everywhere. I feel bad. I can see the patterns, and the cycle, ecstatic in screaming, bursting heat. and then frozen to small miseries. Black spots swimming around me. So I write it all down. This way I know. This way I can learn.

I just don't know what the world wants. You have to bring something to the gaping mouth of the table. You need an offering of colour, those days you wanted to keep. You have to take your loved ones, and their limbs. Whatever you are, you have to feed it through. or go to ruin. I can't be strong enough in self, writhing, and that's always going to be my weakness. I try to help, but you have to be whole in that, brave everything. And then I am exposed—the lightning bolts that love his heart.

I don't pity myself, I promise you that. I just need to feel. I know I am not alone in this. We are just separate, and silent. But we can come together. We can be the armies of autumn.