it's not even funny how often i have to keep myself from diving at your throat, venom-filled teeth, straight for the jugular, misguided, misdirected rage and scathing irritation, boiling up while vultures circle overhead, occasionally dropping in to pick at the bones. ("the vultures ate my baby today.")

whose bones, i wonder. or is it more of a what, an it, a thing, a sigh a frown a tear a sob a scream a whine a a a

a b c the end yet?

do you?

useless outlets for pitiful talents, it all gets torn to bits, anyway. you give yourself to people and they take and they take and they take and you'll never get it back, so don't give it away. the problem here is that no one really trusts anyone else. but maybe it's better to trust no one, prepare for the worst. make sure to have a survival kit ready for this black fucking hole in my black fucking soul, assuming they even make them anymore. hunker down and wait it out, and hope that i don't set it upon everything that ever existed.

i'm sorry that my insides are as sooty and repulsive as an uncleaned chimney, really, i am.