November 2, 2016
I am sick. My body feels inside out. I can see the sickness. It has a face. Mine. There is a trajectory I can sense, though I cannot tell where it will lead. This comforts and infuriates me. I am amorphous. I have become amorphous with this illness. My mouth vents spleen. I spray the world with its poison. I kill people. Their hearts are ripped to shreds. Their bodies are dancing to a death dance. I am the choreographer. The steps will lead to the edge. Each one has their own edge. It is unique, like a new bride.