(set to "i'm all smiles" by bill evans)

a portrait of my mind
on an easel

like a dropped-broken pastel
surrounded in it's own crumbs

11 pieces,
only the two big ones picked up

the other nine pressed against the floor
by a stranger's shoe

and after you're small enough,
you get to go to the old cardboard container,
with all of the other broken pastels

no ones talking though,
it isn't worth it to,

you're all tired
and waiting at gate 4
to hop on the discount plane
at 1:30 in the morning

not really sure if you can trust yourself
after you get home
so you distract yourself
by talking to the stranger in the seat across from you

you've never felt so low
and so helpless

it feels like a different depression
because you know
the moment
that you feel it for the first time,
and it's not like all the other times,
that this one isn't going to go away
and it's going to hurt so much

it's not pain
pain makes you forget

it's worse,
because it makes you realize everything

it tortures you,
by forcing you to live in it,

every detail
every feeling
every emotion

turned into the worse physical sensation you could imagine

and sleep,
isn't even an option for escape

that's a fantasy,
no, it feels like that's a luxury

the muscles of your face feel relieved
your bones feel less dense
you feel weaker,
more fragile
yet physical pain is still not an issue

how fucking broke do you have to be
to feel this way
how are people not dead after feeling like this for so long

because it feels like this is rotting my soul to it's own death
and i can't even smell it coming

i feel so drained
of any organic matter
that my body will not decompose

i won't grow into a tree
or a vine
or a beautiful flower in a forest

i will be thrown in the fucking dump

please just fucking stop this