Writer's block

As far as random thoughts go I am commotion and tumultuous.

I am lighters that I scribble the letters C U N T on, sharpie and black with a few spots missing.

I am me with a gleaming smile on my face, mouth slightly open, spitting blood onto the floor in front of oblivious on lookers who smile back and shake my hand and pass me tips. Down the side of my face, blood slides and fades into fades into stitching.

I am complex sentences with simple meanings, patched and twisted to form the illusion of depth and what's funny is that the possibility of depth is what I'm attracted to most.

I am shaking and filled to the brim but spilling over and missing pieces like some jigsaw puzzle you didn't put together fast enough but the pieces missing are dancing to some inaudible tune of their own to form a 3D masterpiece on the other side. The other side where the grass might be greener but who knows because it hasn't been mowed in days or months and whatever weeds are there are blossoming in the brightest shades of pink and blue.

So maybe the grass is pinker on the other side.

The other side is where I long to be, somewhere next to me, seeing me. A reflection of what I used to be. Hidden inside some cosmic catastrophe, where they have my tongue, canned and floating like the bio hazard trophy I ought to be. 

And what they do with my phalanges is up to interpretation. The ultimate result of self mutilation and when they force feed me ideals and presentations of what the norm and status quo should be while they consider my pros and cons and pencil me into the files they've set aside I'll let it slide.