All I know is drowning is easy. Just stop struggling.

All I know is floating away is easy. Just stop holding on.

All I know is burning is easy. Just breathe.

All I know is waiting is

* * *

Fragments of things half begun half started half finished half touched. Praised now and then. Angry and biting. What, do you think I’m talking about you? No one would believe me, even if I told them, and then I read articles that make me realize you took advantage of me. I thought I was talented. You just thought I had a nice ass. You should’ve been more careful. Then you wouldn’t be where you are now, buried beneath an island of rot, each slice of you sandwiched between layers of six mil plastic, rolled in lawn fabric, soaked in hydrofluoric acid, dusted with quicklime.

* * *

When they come to get me, I’ll tell them you made me do it.

When they come to get me, I’ll tell them you made me

When they come to get me, I’ll tell

When they come


About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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0 Responses to Distressed

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    I don’t believe in God, Jones. But I believe in you. Well, more to the point, I believe in your writing.

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