with a shot of espresso...

Quiet despair stain my cheeks with black drops of vain crayon smeared across the lids of my eyes for the sake of my self-esteem.

I am stuck in purgatory, surely, for I have always been a blasphemous insect creeping and crawling in darkness and hidden nooks in fear of living in the shame that coat my hands in layers of scarlet plasma. That of my own veins. It oozes and drips over the cotton material that clothe my mutilated body.

My sins can only be expiated by sacrifice, so I carve holy symbols into the canvas that envelopes the structure that contains my being. The imperfect architecture that serves as a capsule for my diffidence.

The sun is meek on this day. He avoids my isolated gathering with introspection's torment and turbulence. We join in a ritualistic dance to the beating of war drums that echo through my empty chest chamber. In that space that one calls upon a spirit; an essence of thought.

I am as much nothing as I am physically insignificant to the entirety of creation. I am negligible in the continuous and everlasting expansion of all there is and all that is to become.

I start to dissolve into the soup of existence. I evanesce and am forgotten, lost to a peripheral, poisoned civilization in which disabled minds frolic in littered fields and worship judges that compete for the throne that rules the morality of humanity.

I wish for my own cessation in order to be liberated from the web that cuff my limbs to an adhesive trap that would lead to my inevitable consumption. Just so I can end up where everyone ends up anyway. In the stomach acid of the Lord, slowly digesting and feeding that which needs no sustenance.

The direction is always down: through the intestines, into the ground or from the top of the cliff, yet there is no lower than this. This forsaken mind that sounds the call of my voice; that fabricates the words I utter. I am creation itself, in action, in the immediate coordinates of the act of living and warp into the fabric of spacetime, but I am vacant of it's meaning. Where the miracles are anticipated, it is barren and lifeless.

Perhaps I am just without the specific matter that stimulates our brains into feeling anything above a mediocre sense of belonging to something that is bigger than my desolation.

I watch the palms of my hands catch fire, illuminating the bloody runes smeared onto the walls that encapsulates my overbearing consciousness. I watch the flames burn up my arms, as if the corner of a paper is set alight and now grows as it is fed towards the middle. I watch my fingers turn into ash and fall to the ground in flakes that glide against the friction of the cold air that envelopes me.

The fire has run it's way to my chest, the capitol of my being, the location of that which continuously creates me and of where my abstract existence is formulated. I have forfeited my obligation to indulge in the terror. I have succumbed to the hysteria of the uncertain void that follows the loss of my mind's sight. I finally am not.