A phrase metastasizes in my brain, an alphabetic cancer devouring any other possible thought, a testament to my obsession with the emptiness I perceive, clearly contradicted by this thought developing into something complex. 'The silence is deafening.'

I am expecting a miracle when all I need is a carefully applied ointment and a bandage to stop it all from falling out. The mosquitoes here would certainly lift it if they had the strength and bathe in my loss. But they won't need to when I peel it slowly off; in part out of selflessness to appease their hunger, but also this urge to masochism.

Self-harm is not the same as loathing, or at least not necessarily. The pain is an excellent distraction from the hate I feel for the lack I perceive in myself.

I say, "I want to love you" "But you have become so god damned ugly."

So I push you away and to the back of my mind where your corpse rots and festers fostering the growth of so much strange new life that I have no names for. They become gargantuan before showing even a glimpse of their size and explode suddenly into the realm of salience that now rules my days lashing rabidly for my based desires restrained only by the familial chain, those of my blood arms linked like barbs whose only chance for disconnection is to push further and further in until breaking through the other side leaving a puddle of frothy flesh vibrating to the rhythm of my heart attack.

I feel sick. I can't tell if it's the humidity, the soulless food preparation, or the question wrapping its coarse endless rope around my gut; "are you fucking him?" I always say that a little mystery keeps the interest alive but this is too much. Its a fucking boulder careening down a hill and I don't know if or when its going to crush me flat to leave me dry and broken like an old straw hat.

He used to wear me proudly atop him head but then he took me to a drunk drugged up party and left me on a couch to be fucked on top of just snuffed underneath a sweat soaked blanket too complacent to say a word. I missed him so much as my flimsy wicker construction was being pressed apart under the weight of some shapeless lustful exchange.

Now, I am just a miss. Writing to bide the rise and fall of my self imposed insanity, like the tides; high and pristine, low and revealing the mud and trash. Human waste left by a thousand aimless lonely nights.

How is it possible to be deserted on an island when the shore is littered with writhing bodies. The question is too much mystery for me to bear so I escape to a more familiar place, my shrine to the constant, the fact that I can always be alone if I choose to be.

Family and friends like satellites orbit around me. Or is it me that is spinning, hurdling through space?

Probably neither.

Our movements make spirals that sometimes meet to form single points. Not a location in some n-dimensional space, but a single point that becomes absolutely everything, soon to be dissolved and dispersed into yet another new universe of unlimited complexity and combination.

Create, Destroy, Repeat. We are replete with opportunities to renew the process and are simply doomed to its mercy unless we become it.

My solemn goal. To grasp the rule and bend it to my liking that we may inhabit a world in the image of my maker.

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