Babble of Some Sort

I am a ruined isolationist stumbling into a desolate spume with no way of escaping. I shall never reach freedom. And freedom shall never reach me. We are destined to be apart—tragic Shakespearean cliché without the drab romance engorging the insides of a faltering plot.

Trapped in cage.

Ensnared, like a bird between thick fingers of curious child.

Caught in the tired fixations of the non-universe.

'What is the non-universe' an outsider might ask.

I would respond in kind, my voice distant and hollow, 'Why…it is where I reside of course.' And then we would share a laugh, not really comprehending the joke.

Soon, the outsider shuffles away in a sudden need to run from my presence. I remain, listening to footfalls and twiddling my thumbs.

My insides felt hungry. I was hungry. I needed food—anything to fill the sudden emptiness.

I count my nimble digits instead. Starving just a little bit more. I needed my skins to fit just right—taut over protruding bone to satisfy the imaginary gods with insatiable appetites.

I hate those fucking gods, always pretending to exist. Just like me. Just like me.

I change my mind-I am more like them. I do not exist either. And if I do not subsist, then I am not alive.

Head is heavy now. Thick and full with cement musings. It slumps under the mass, twisting my neck just a bit; crushing my shoulders ever so slightly.

That satin pillow of virgin delusion looks so comfortable at the moment. I think I might rest between those welcoming thighs, upon stomach blessed by swelling. I shall swim in the sea of her presence. No. I shall drown. Drowning sounds more befitting of the harrowed out hallucination. Yes. I will sink under weight of conjured hopes...and love never to be.

Breathing hitches.

Lungs fill and burst.

Phantom heart falters in song.

As nighttime eternity disrupts my vision, my thoughts condense into a lofty smoke cloud. I ponder upon that recipe for sugar cookies. I could use something sweet.