box of teeth

my head is a mess, staring into glasses of milk, more plastic than—and fingers clenching, and throwing my headphones at the fucking wall. I just pull my sleeves up a little more and try to let go. i really feel like a song, a person, something I really shouldn't go into.

but, I did not write: record this infinite night.

it was, it sparked up, and now has it come to—returned to napalm, writhing, a box of teeth, all fucking menaces.

I no longer hold the sentences to explain, that I wholeheartedly fucking abhor the way people function. I am meant to be the one that is odd, and strange, and creating the wrong and awkward patterns. but I care, and I build invisible kingdoms, from shitty fucking light bulbs and glancing moments. it is everyone else who does not. it's just—bite down, more, more. it's just: I had a good fucking night. it was warm, and we were both aliens. but, it is always the same. when I am not escaping orbit, I try to crawl closer, but it's all just distance.

you—just—return—to—them.

like I am stuck out here on the opposite side of the mirror, licking stamps and wounds.

I can't focus. I'm trying to stay quiet, trying to listen to them, trying to keep the hope there, for a spark, but it won't.

I should give up.

(but I can't.)

I should fucking—