In my most recklessness I resemble less a rushing boar and more an unprecedented monument that in one fell image embodies every notion of doubt and loathing I in day never imagine to see in a public space. I knit myself these things that are like somewhere between landmarks and medals that I staple to my neck like scarves so I can always be in my eyes range of acknowledging or some kind of shit where there’s something tactile for myself to touch around others or for them to see and acknowledge and touch around others. The problem is that all of my limbs are completely delusional. My hands that knit landmedals craft cruel workings of empty desires for the sick chambers of my chest where I generate warmth for bringing people together or some stupid honesty communicative thing I’ve made to nestle is in all accounts a cavernous tunnel where ice is more fluid than any thing it could variatingly melt into? I’m just this structure that glazes between my ribs and only ever fervently cares about anything or nothing but gives these branches too much to never blossom into and takes pictures of other blossoms imagining something of how that’s what branches grow into but between my bones they splinter and penetrate not another only my fucking skin and out of my knuckles so I can never move my hand again.
There are just too many spaces where I feel like I am only casting armor for others to feel sanctum inside but it acts only as my excuse for swinging an axe and never feeling feeling an arrow strike me. When I bind my facets together and say a simple braid is all it will take he weaves a beautiful braid like a textbook and still I sit asking what is left and why.