here's the fucking truth

my life is a slimy, salty sea
whose density is inconstant.
i either float above the deep blue
on a bed of sodium chloride
or surrender, sink into its depths
consumed by thoughts and doubts.

every week, a roller coaster
though less daunting then my companion's
we use our brains to over-think
instead of just: think.
my current grocery list:
self-conscious
self-hate
close-minded
social anxiety
depression
philosophy
fear.
i am finally plugged in.
almost as if a new part of my brain has turned on
something i had never thought before,
now dominant.

figures with narrow pelvic brims
strong muscles,
bigger hyoid bones
i've come to believe that i am their puppet.
eighty percent of my happiness, in their hands
if i am not constantly pursued by at least one
i am lost.
what is this terrible truth?
why does it surround me, control me?
all i wish is to beat it,
overcome it.

i fear the traveling hand,
the palm's extensions that hunger for adventure,
for discovery.
i fear wandering cornea and lenses
being judged and used and exposed
the very act that society deems in two extremes:
as something meaningless
as something unspeakable.
i fear you who has done it,
whose body reeks with invisible odeur
emanates with a dirt-filled aura
i cannot stand the thought of being second
(or third or fourth...)

brain, no longer reeling
when i rest at night, alone except for
my thoughts to keep me company
i return to one lonesome thought
swimming in cerebrospinal fluid
basking in the warmth of firing neurons..
we are all living just to die.
on our deathbed
we wont look back on a full life
and be happy for what we did.
we will look back
and severely miss everything that made us happy
for we're going to a place
where nothing's tangible, or possible
or touchable or thinkable
ever again.