decrepit room of dust and jars
so filled with bugs and creepy things, frozen
a wall lined with little white fluorescent lights,
because i need all the light i can get

i've been here before,
once
the smell of death starts seeping into your nostrils
there's nothing you can do but keep from vomiting

this is a cemetery of sorts
the corpses piled on the floor
but none of them buried,
the steel table in the center of them
like a shrine, for torture not prayers

massacre isn't something new to me;
when i was a kid i captured butterflies
i nurtured them, watched them flutter
i ripped their fucking wings off.

being here stirs something new,
or something old i haven't felt in a long time
whether it's the lack of life or the surplus of blood i'm not sure,
but i like it, i relish it

i pull out my switchblade and cut open my hand
my blood has always been too thick for my veins.
the cut is deep, sure,
but not as deep as our conversations used to be.
hm, used to be
like how i used to be considered normal
used to be something good, something unbroken

who am i kidding,
i have never been fixed