plastic bag of revelations.
Count my patience in grams.
Never "I am" just "was".
Now sleeping. Words are useless.
Brains are [bad word] and love to waste time,
making reasons for hormone shifts we call fate.
Our love and our hate are just inside-outside confusions.

And all that I am is a malleable happening,
and all that I have is this intricate web of beliefs...

So I wash myself in condemnation for not seeing through this,
and [bad word] trapped once again in this adrenal reasoning
that apparently controls my ability to filter out,
the [bad word] in this violent sea... of passion.
 [bad word] 
Sewn in my head.
Reflexive blindness, intelligent fever.
Sewn in my head.
 [bad word] to find that there's no meaning without this volatility,
and [bad word] to hold on is the one and only way to feel.