if you know any philosophy majors, pray for them

So,

I could be the cosmos.

But what then?

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nsfw(h)(s)(l)(me)

i hurt myself because the pain is validation that you hurt me all those years ago. i bleed myself because the blood is proof that pain means nothing to me and i’m not the goddamn spineless cunt you thought i was. relax. it’s masturbation; so why can’t you be happy for me? why do you complain about my slow destruction when everything you did convinced me it was reversible, in my head, half-hearted, for show, pathetic, weak, foolish, childish, UNREAL UNREAL UNREAL. I WILL PROVIDE YOU WITH GALLONS OF BLOOD ONE DAY.
I HOPE YOU WILL BE SATISFIED.

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paragon

had this been our trade, a deliberant movement of that divinity – may it cradle your head in rest, as it does mine –
had you, from my inheritance been made the ruler of kingdoms and the lover of humankind,
still I would not do battle for it; my blade is drawn inward

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I didn’t think I cared for photography

And even my weakness, I despise for the wrong reasons. It’s not a question of whether or not it should be despised, in that I have made up my own mind, and each attempt to shake me from the familiar stranglehold is met with more than barred teeth. You don’t understand at all. Even for this, I fought.

For precious little, I fought.

The microcosmic narrative into which I waded, eventually escaping the chill of the air, for this I fought.

And I despise my weakness for other reasons.

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I faked out my philosophy professor

somehow I had forgotten that this was our last day living side by side, and that you’d return to the substance of pensive thoughts and late nights. A couple notes in a song that carried me to a place neither of us really inhabited. You know, as it was.

You don’t know, do you? But I promise, we had good moments together. Your presence, and I.

Still more real than what you’ve been to me recently. I blame myself.

I always blame myself.

I try to blame myself.

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she is me

like so many baffling paint-by-numbers; different instructions each – we taste each color but know not the hue that is spoken of and so, the flavor becomes sullied – our best guess an affront to the submerged, swaddled, beating heart

like so many connect the dots, whose meaning is stolen by the dimension of an entire dimension (and the feel – how to hold a human hand without a thousand glistening synapses begging the question(s))

lost. standing. looking on. lost.

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