(no subject)

I remember him today. He was strong, stronger than anything. He was my mother more than I am, although she did not birth him.

I think he has infected me. He would be happy. When he exploded, there were bits of him on my face and I thought to eat them would be right. That would have made him smile. There are so many horrible words that he makes me think of that are dear to me now. I wish they were not so dear. I would like nothing to be dear to me. It is what I say to myself, that there is nothing. Is a memory a thing? You can not touch it but it lives and dies inside bodies. A ghost of a memory... something that was a thought and now is less. Like echoes.

The only things that stir in me are dead things. I am of corpses.


I am honest because there is no one left to hear.


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