Cyanide Daydreams

brainfog

     every other page in my sketchbook lately has been a self portrait because three quarters of the time i can't remember what my own face looks like and i guess i need reminders or in about half the cases some way to express how i think it might look, what i might be, some mutated monstrosity, with far too many eyes and sharpened yellow teeth in a mouth that's too wide, a body that's a battlefield full of holes leaking ooze and creatures feeding on my bone marrow(assuming i even have bones, of course).
     so i can't remember my own face let alone what should-be-useless assignments to do or how to eat or sleep or live or breathe in this world or how to tolerate everyone every day whenever they so much as breathe in my direction and i'm instantly filled with that familiar burning, senseless, sourceless, purely animalistic rage.
     i never know what's going on or what was just said to me or what came out of my own mouth two seconds ago, you think i'm in control?? you poor delusional lunatic, you fucking blind bat, you utterly useless compost. i cant form responses, i can't think, ninety-nine percent of the time i dont feel human; oh just if you could see how i process the world around me.

spoiler alert- i don't.

     i look down at my hands and i see right through them, i'm a ghost, a figment of my own imagination,
i don't fucking exist (i never fucking have). this skin isn't mine, and i'm not fucking alone in it.