It is excruciatingly painful to be self-aware –
to know your own flaws
to the see the morbid direction in which you are willingly walking
to be a slave to old, destructive habits.
It’s almost like I am a corpse,
you would have to be a moldy, mourning cadaver
to be able to digest the uncanny way
in which you slowly, subtly unfold your life
truly, formidably dying.
To be hyper-aware of all the things you say –
the selfish nostalgia of knowing that you cannot,
you could never,
go back to when your slate was not shadowed
by mistakes you consciously made.
It is a consuming guilt to know that you are wasting away
in your fertile garden,
no fountains, no roses blooming on this grave.
Our habits watering the soil we swim in,
always on the edge of something great.
Every breath you take swirls into your lungs
it is poison, our oxygen is poison
and it is fed to us straight from our mother’s womb.
You were bred to feel this way.
How hopeless it is to blame genetics
to leave the sloppy, unraveling bits of your anorexic anatomy
to the unguarded sciences of human hereditary.
But there is nothing wrong with our parents
and our siblings seem to be doing just fine.
It is our own peeling skin,
folding in on itself –
our unique identity, setting us apart, keeping us akin.
I am merely dancing in my starvation.
On Omniscience and Decay
