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I am losing my voice. I am always losing my voice. I always have been. I let the world into the head and chop me into firewood. Be Ouroboros with an ax wound. I write backwards, suck it in like blood. Vampires between the paragraphs. I am screaming a mountain. I am rock face less. The tense always fucks me. The wanting and the not wanting. I feel imaginary sadness. None of this matters or is worthy.

But I have to record something.

I breathed heavy and nothing came out

I made nothing beautiful. I see it, though.

SOMEONE COME OUT, AND SAY: I UNDERSTAND YOUR CONDITION.

Practice.

Swallow down another photograph.

Filter blur.

I am nothing. I am nothing. I am nothing under all of this.

Study the chemicals. They go so fast. Faster than my keystrokes.

Why couldn't you just be louder every moment you are saved?

Mute. Nothing. Silence. Clenched teeth. Head in my hands

Atomic illumination of information and connection.

Life is good. This is all my head inventing.

Experiment.

Call this flux. I have.

I am failing my dreams. It's true.

So, this exists in tandem. The mirror side of my shadow. Always has.

I just breathe in songs and berate myself until my feet feel floor. Until I retreat.

But I tell the truth. I am not a writer. I always say that. They always disagree. But this is proof. I am trying my hardest and only this mess falls out. Rings of scissors. Schisms. Traps under feet.

I will invent a way that lets me speak the story that is singing jet flight and ends of everything behind.

My head hunts me.

I will speak.