“If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I’m neurotic as hell.” (Sylvia Plath)
J.: Closer to death with every breath,
Farther from life with every blink,
In the void of ending one can’t swim, but sink.
M.: Easy to infiltrate. To persist. To haunt.
A.: I don’t want to be forgotten, I don’t want to be forgotten, don’t forget me, don’t forget me, don’t forget me, please.
L.: Don’t ask inutilities from a shape that ends too in a coffin or urn.
A.: Posterity. In there is the potential invincibility.
M.: A bitter hallucination.
A.: Scream my sorrow through your skin, does it feel as itchy as for me? Bleed your heart as if mine, does it feel as turbulent? Splinter your mind as if inside my skull, does it feel as blistering? Bite your tongue, pierce your eyelids, walk on shards, sleep on rocks, deracinate your hairs, scratch your wrists, feel me, feel me, feel me.
J.: The memorization of the sensation
Doesn’t confer integrity,
Doesn’t repel the transiency.
L.: I was wrong, I was wrong, I confess, I confess. Mea culpa. Totalmente.
M.: No God or priest around you, darling, only crossroad columns.
A.: Overly human. Embellished with imperfections.
L.: I now know.
M.: The way to stay in?
A.: The way to not get out?
L.: There is no black hole, the burning that presses the walls of my skull, the mutilating pain of infirmity, the derisive helplessness…now it makes sense of my nonsense.
M.: Spit it on us.
A.: Toss it around.
J.: Spill your guts.
L.: I am pregnant.
M.: Something grows inside your belly. Something feeds on you, something masturbates inside you, something drinks its piss in there.
A.: A lovely parasite. A some-day-body.
L.: Inside my head, it grows inside my head, and it feeds on its matter. Is no black hole, is a spinning death-beat.
J.: You might learn to love it.
Before it sucks you in completely,
Before it depletes your sanity,
Before it replaces you with it.