you've been singing the same song over and over like you want it to infect you

the door swings open and your mom is in the doorframe scared but she doesn't show it

and you want her to sing too because if you're singing then you can't be dead

You feel dead

Today's not a good day for singing

Your throat is scratchy but not like vinyl on a record player and you think you might be dying too

If not genetically, then hypothetically; love can't be hereditary because Mom and Dad don't love

Do you love?

You love this song because the lyrics understand you

And isn't understanding a type of love?

You feel more than ever, now

You feel holes where you didn't want to, you feel gaps and stretching in your skin

You feel like you're oozing, a chemical bath internalized

You feel when he says "Julian's situation" in the car and he doesn't even trip over the words that are probably tearing up his fucking mouth

Is that how you're supposed to talk about dead people?

Are they situations or are you?

Are you disingenuous for feeling words that have no meaning?

Once your best friend yelled at you because you said the word "dead" about someone who was dead

For some reason that made you feel less

She's dead

She's dead

I don't care if she's dead because she doesn't care because she's dead because everyone dies

Are you calloused or pitifully soft?

Is it disingenuous to pretend you don't know the answer?

You're not scared to be genuine, you're just not weak anymore

You wish someone would tell you to shut the fuck up about not being weak

No one gives a shit if you're a pushover

And fuck it if your mom dies because a little part of you dies every time you look at her and know

Every time you look at her and know she's not going to love you when she finds out the truth

Fuck it if she dies, fuck it if you die, Mom can't hate you if she's fucking dead

You hope one of you diediedie before she finally does

God hates fags and so did your mom, God rest her soul

You think God's a little disingenuous to be completely honest

If he didn't want everyone to fight over what he really meant he'd just clear it up

Though you suppose you would like the attention, too

You think that maybe it's a little coy for God to say that he never makes mistakes

Because you sit here, mismatched limbs and strange anatomy

You look at yourself in your entirety and think that he must be wrong

You look at everyone around you and you think

He must be wrong

Only mistakes can hurt this badly

Tell yourself that God made mountains so you could climb them

Tell yourself that they hurt you so you could learn to forgive

Tell yourself you're not sad, you're realistic

Tell yourself:

Everyone dies

Everyone dies

Everyone dies