This shit storm that melts my soul isn’t normal; no, it’s not humanly possible, or humanely acceptable for someone to feel the way I do.
It crunches each fragment of happiness my soul clung to-and it demands attention: it is only satisfied when I write about it.
But still, it shapes the disgusting vulnerability that makes me human; the beauty of being a soulful sinner- it makes me.
It forges the acceptanility of holy patterns that bring hell to the human soul; it makes humanity and breaks consciousness, boredom.
It lives, and breeds and grows; until it kills whatever I have left.