Cranial pattern, lung pattern, floral pattern, my kitchen table.
My hair is falling out again, now surely more than last. We don't know why. We.
I feel like my mind is disintegrating, at this moment. As moments go, ever suspended and immobile within the sangria beauty of time. Consistent degeneration, wasted and drained of clutter, medicated with a fool's consent, lullaby lost. I'm pulling it out, at times. Pulling it out. The metal system in me wants for itself, like any orphaned organism would.
I remembered myself to be a god. Now look at me. What pristine nature matured to, like what happens to old lemon curd. Like the weight comes back with the meds. Like I'm feeling lost now. Like the joy is gone.
It's been seven years, and there seems to be no relatively.
Will I ever, truly, get better? Or, am I somehow going to dig all my life.