hell is other people

why do i do this to myself,
sit here listening to iron and wine like it's
anywhere near me, like it's some kind of
validation for the things i think people
are thinking about me to just cover my tracks
with gardens i live too far to eat from?
the better i get at this, the more i see where
i fail and fall hard, nightmares about spilling
flour and being a child. the cup can only
fill to one brim of effort, after that i
wake up before my alarm with
an alien in my stomach, wondering why everybody
gets to be god over me.
i love at everybody in the fucking eyes,
i look in them with a commitment to
speaking over the thought fungus,
which i thought was a commitment to myself
but now it only feels like i'm shouting--
i will not be made afraid!
and my speech gives everybody
ammunition against me.
who am i kidding? even the actions i know
are right, like pulling straws
up through a sleeping throat,
the problem, the whole problem is the knowing.
if i put on perfume, it will look like i care,
i do care but not enough to lie,
what kind of lie am i telling and to who,
how much does it matter whether you're a
nice person, this is a war of censorship
and i am sitting on my own acute fit, like
terrible orgasms that just makes your
cold sweat smell like the stress of
trying desperately to keep the boredom out.