do not resuscitate. please.

003: words of loving demise.

Source: Pinterest

Pre-post Note: Please read on laptop (and full screen) for the correct formatting!

Read the first words of each sentence.

It's a pain to be gnawing at your insides, yet not wanting to stop—organs of  
a mannequin controlled by lights turning on and off—when the wet fingers of
wretched hands claw at the plastic protection that restricts them. Never—a
day felt like it was melting out of its existence, merely because of its weight.
Why does the blood-red moon shine so angrily, although borrowing energy—
do the craters mind when the fury of a star leap directly towards them? If—
I were to mimic a star, would I be a dying white dwarf or a black hole alone, 
live as a supernova, of one blinding the universe with its marvel, but not 
reaching, a fraction of what eyes of marble could comprehend.
—
What is the meaning of shackles loosely attached to my soul? A reverie—
could you come and sit beside me? I want to talk to you, with my sewed lips,
the threads of which shine with saliva and suffering. Though, the light of the
stars reflect in your eyes, I'm afraid the distance of them also lingers behind; 
do you see the spider webs in my ears, spiraling with dust accumulated slowly
for Them to poke their fingers, bursting my eardrum? The Earth spins without
me, and it will for millions of years that you will forget every whisper of it—
when your fingernails rot silently into the pristine feathers at the golden gate.
I'm already rotting but my soul lies beneath the mist of despair and demise—
drowning in air, like a fish flapping its fins silently, until its breath slips— far,
far towards the minds of those who remember. Your lack of oxygen might lead
away to someplace where you breathe nicotine instead.
—
What do you think I want to do when my joints are screeching with rust; what
could I do if my hips are locked into place—stuck beneath the bars of the cage
you urged me into; when I'm trapped with my own hellish thoughts of heaven.
Do you really think I can blink when my eyes very painfully—continue to water
for the chrysanthemums and daffodils of dirt and dim? When smoke reaches
me, I will disintegrate with it, floating in coughs and sighs, of things long gone
when I finally swallow the mud of what comes an end of things long coming.
I'm going now—my flesh has rotted, my skin has been flayed and my nails
already broken into tiny prickles of myself; my hair has turned into snakes
in distress, hissing away at mortals putting a heart on a high pedestal; they
charge into the pursuit of the very thing that will destroy them. The smell
of my breath foul, filth of ambrosia thrown up by the queen bee. The sound of
my broken voice, scratching at wood like a broken record, continuously —screaming poetry of Tartarus and swears of Elysium. When, by my very —
own claws I dug into what's left of my measly existence, forcefully looking at
demise, hoping to immortalize it into stone.

Track of the day:

The rhythm of your own heartbeat

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Inspiration:

camera and film

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