Immutable

These extremities of emotion are what will be the death of me. I am most likely to self destruct in a random flare out than a long and deliberate effort to transmute energy to static.

Feeling like I can be ok on my own and tasting the lie amidst the foliage, from beach to a stark snow.

Something displeases me and I want to sever it from myself, to punish my own skin and soul. 

What is this reckless heartache and why does it rear its head when things are exactly as they should be. 

This isn’t the concern of things dissolving into madness and misery again, or if it is, it is so powerful and dreadful I am the reflection of all joy stumbling into emptiness.

Pleading for otherness is shameful and futile. Why can this happen? Behind my silent mouth is the outrage bewildered at the injury.

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