Ill.

Memories. The reason I miss. They're making everything clearer now, I can get back to somewhere I was.
But the earth is shaking. Looking up from the cigarette to fondle crippled air soaked in dense sheets of tunnel vision. Something pretty for your Christmas present. I'll wrap it in the only thing I've ever had to offer, even though even this is no longer a talent, but a frustration.
When the activity becomes something you partake in, not because you want to, but because you need to, because there's nothing else to do, you might as well be the granddaughter of Sylvia Plath, who was doomed to die nine deaths, but couldn't wait for the fourth and departed mid-story.
I miss everybody, people I hate, people I don't know. Hiding out in this apartment, waiting for The Man to bring the medication so I can remember again. However, sickness is crawling up inside me and I've gone too far.
The sun always shines in the morning, and at least I can be grateful to be alive to feel that pretty warmth, unlike how I felt before, hiding in the shadows to protect my pale skin.
Losing weight, losing patience, losing contact. It seems like I've never created anything, it's all fake. The people I thought I knew are so far away while I bathe in my illness, I'm not sure how to get back to them. I'm not sure I want to. I might have just written them. Or drawn them. Dreamed them.
And suddenly, I don't care anymore, because I know I'll get better. Just let the illness pass, maybe it'll do you some good. Sitting here in your hood of memory, painting feathers in every kiss you blow, crushing flies between your fingernails and watching them decay a little more each day on the windowsill.
I wish I could've done things different, now. Trying to figure out why I'm so ill, did I lose my lucky charm? No, it's my excuse, so I don't have to go out there, it's scarey and dark.
The Man says I can stay here as long as I'd like, but I don't think I'll be here much longer, I seem to have forgotten who I am. My name keeps slipping out on the pages, like a silent reminder that I once was, but I'll never be.
If the fruit had never been eaten, the sword never pulled, the space left undiscovered. If Hoffman had decided to keep a secret...
I wouldn't be here, biting nails and living off junkfood, watching the kilograms drop off into the ashtray. Chainsmoking, heavy breathing, wolf spirit.
The characters are spiralling down now. I can feel them in my veins, I think this is what that slimey little mind-eater wanted me to tell.