written 12:06 AM// June 12, 2005 // Sunday

[ station ]

In your surreal desertion, wherein I did not even deign to return your farewell, my insides jostled obscenely; I feel mangled, gouged, yet incredulously contemptuous. I am the word SHATTER, yet all there is is but a dent in my heart; cream, I am, creamed, melted from a sardonic paranoid steely egg into an impossibly soft foamy mass, so different from this flesh whence come all these emotions. I feel like the word RELISH; a creeping stain, a slow yet impudent ooze, a rather vulgar phosphorescent blur slightly in the line of your peripheral vision eating up the floor without even stepping away from this single tile. Impersonal, lurid, I lurch glibly towards lush hysteria as I cradle the last vestige of my mutilated dismay (that I feigned innocence of) to spare you being bestowed it as a parting gift.

All of a sudden I stumble on my unnatural goal, and I feel a frivolous urge to weep, break, explode; the leash called Shame is the only thing that keeps me from mutating into a swashbuckling blitzkrieg, followed by a sheer surge of toxic lassitude.

Of my own volition I loosen slightly; my eyes gleam strangely in the fluorescent light, then glisten fully with liquid glass. I have been claimed by inertia; here I stand (or, more accurately, wobble), trapped in a futile attempt to betray myself, wantonly recalling the unreal hush and the mad rush of pain as you said goodbye. With a hefty amount of vertigo I begin to wonder whether all those wild jabs inside left scars—then I remember that there was only the infinitesimal dent like a crease on silk, marring almost none of the sheen. I mourn, as unfeelingly yet onomatopoeic as possible, for this inimicably disastrous crossfire of thought and emotion ripping my sanity to shreds and causing a repetitive metallic clang to echo in my ears.

Brutal, this love; what a travesty. We are utterly lacking in pizzazz, in glitz, like a tawdry whimper lurking in the shadows. Oh, how to purge this from my system, how to rid myself of this sordid bathos? Passersby gawk, I realize with a jolt that I must look stupid; but then again I am. Archaic, the feeling of the moment—does anyone feel this word this way anymore? To be a kamikaze pilot, what luxury; to speed through the skies then tilt and whizz down to the final liberating thud below.

Sudden silence; then again oblivion is what I crave. In the distance I hear the train rushing into the station, so fast and already too close for something so full of weight; with a sinking feeling I realize that I cannot stand the whooshing noise—why must it sound so? As I try to ignore the sound of the slipstream blackness seeps into my vision; the train hurtles into the station and in this final moment of consciousness the tracks tilt dangerously close and the rain pervades the strangely shrill lull like a talisman of obsolete synthesis.

~ copyrighted. please do not steal works, especially now that i'm losing touch with myself. i rarely get to write anything with sense. sigh. -_-'