you’re still wanting a confession out of yourself that you’re a creature of unspeakable things,
a forced confessions
as behind compulsively picking at skin I can see you igniting candles with breath
walk with me as you label the parts of yourself you love the most
call them the sun
you didn’t and don’t need beautiful
you just need proof
that your mind works with the cosmos
you’re wasting neurones on a puzzle with no answer
relax into a semi catatonic condition,
a consensual state bringing you back to the present
a present where you’ll get stuck on the phenomenon
of your unmade bed and half chewed thoughts
Lost in the Story 
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