The Second Act

I wish I could eat this reality. Let my teeth tear into it, grind it down. The time, the molecules and creation mix with my spit and slide down my gullet. My stomach acid boils it and somewhere along the way, my dying cells are replaced and nourished by this violence.

I hate this crash, this awareness. It’s the endless me staring at the endless who stares back, if only to say ‘what do you expect, kid?’ I’m not the first to question or the first to ask. Probably not even the first to have half a hope for an answer back. Even if it’s just a moment to carry around forever, one that says chosen.

There is no answer. No rhyme or reason. All this mental illness and not even a commemorative shirt. Just the knowing.