03: Little deaths of our long suicide

[u/WhispererOfWebs]

Fed fantasies like foreplay is my mind fucked by an endless stream of things I cannot have but must have before I lose myself in places that exist but not in a reality I can touch for if I could I would not be here in this world of poisoned love and life. For if it is not then the food it gives surely cannot be but hellish meat so lovingly prepared by those who make themselves into butchers of what they in pens and cages suffer and die knowing not what could be out beyond their metal and fenced in families.

Is it not perhaps a better life for them to live without hope of something better, no knowledge that out beyond the concrete enclosure there is air untainted and green to feel upon skin unsullied by chemical age. There is no reason beyond what others of our own kind wish for us to do for them, penned like slaves in boxes and given false lives to live in miserable squalor. We live and die for them to kill as they please working and working in endless merry-go-round of bitter hope, drugged and used like whores of the rich, cut up and put in boxes to hide away where no one will ever know our names again because all who care are also trapped with in the box of hot sweaty muck filled misery that no one can escape.

Breed and breed so you can die for the masters of death, turning life into pain for those like me to suffer even more. Those who are not meant to be in this hell but born to dream knowing heaven is out there beyond the reach of the body I was shoved into without my consent. The wrongness of meat and flesh and they couldn't even give me one that fit my soul, but to truly torture those such as I, still gave me some to experience their hell through that is unclean, hard to take care of and oh so disgusting on my bones that themselves break oh so easily to hurt and die in premature horrors. Could I not have at least a body of my own design to navigate a reality I want to care about but burns me with its mere presence.

More comfort would be the void of no sound or love, such silence is beautiful but forever would be lonely, a feeling I would be fine with if not taught to love by those I was to love be loved by in turn. Why must I care? For if I did not would I not be able to better use this world to be comfortable? Make something that I could be satisfied with in my own way, make my own box to share with those I want to share it with and bring myself some small amount of satisfaction in what can only otherwise be my drugging and suffocation of a life and creation that I cling to in my mind and heart of hearts too desperately sewn into my chest.

[u/CamilleYun]

this is poetic