object

I am the child who was raised by the wolves. me, son of time. me, son of all things unholy. I am the unslept bed, the unworn clothes, the untouchstone. you can count on me for nothing. I am the maniac daughter, raised by a telly. I am the utter constraint of desire, I am the hole in the existence, present in everyone’s heart. I am the break, the fragment, the enigma. come, decipher me. dive into your own abyss, try me, use me, bend me, fix me. I am so broken. I am the son of sea – deep, wild, violent. see? I am waiting for hail to fall. I’m the pure expectation. I am frustration. I am the hell that hath no fury. I am poor metaphors, the lack of meaning, the lack of rhythm. I am the utter and complete negation of rhyme. I’m the unholy water, the untested faith. I am the insomnia, I’m the monster underneath your bed. I am the love of your life – dive into me. drown into me. I’ll wait. I am the expensive distractions that fulfill the temporary voids in your life. I am the water that engulfs you, fills your lungs. I rob you of air. I am the uttermost lack of emotion, I am the undreamt dream, the unthought thought.

I am un-here.
I am un-real.
come touch me.

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