This feeling, this wrongness, this wrinkled sadness that only time and experience can bring upon oneself. I wish I didn’t know it.

This kind of wisdom isn’t worth its cost. I am not merely talking about some “be dumb, be happy” shitty ideals. I am talking about the gall and glass left at my throat as psychological souvenirs of the past.

Fizz! It goes like this— The ghastly cola, My burning throat, The life I run from, Coming back in flames.

The fire surrounds me, But how could it not? It comes from the heart, It comes from the gut Feeling I got Every time you’re around.

You don’t even exist, But how could you not? You’re in the back of my eyes Every time that I’m blind.

It’s nothing much, just Li’l ol’ schizophrenic me Hallucinating grisly ghostly you, While drinking effervescent Sweet soft poison.

At least there is consistency In the disguised Wildfire of me— It all keeps frying, frizzling, My heart and my throat, My despair and my greed, Undivided in flames.

It all mixes up, boy, Acid reflux Existencial dread And the lack of you, Blurring into my insides.

Eventually, It will end up Burning me to the ground, I just hope I could go With some incandescent Colors of you In one last great boom.

Too painful to bear, the loss, the choice, the dreadful abyss of letting go.

Why not to share? I asked to myself and I asked to the first, but the answer came in a slap.

Oh, my face, the shame, the red, the blood, in my cheeks, on the ground.

See, that bloody thing, bloodying the floor, is my fucking heart, dramatic and alive wishing to die.

I asked to the second, and received, this time, a kiss with lingering bitterness.

“Duplicitous little bitch,” they said with a choked voice and left me, making the choice.

The first one showed me sudden kindness, and took my meaty feelings from the cold bloodied floor.

But they only cradled it in their soft warm hands to drop it better in the trash.

Shall I make it my home? I think stupidly to myself, shedding lazy tears that taste like glass and gall.

It’s a regular winter day. In another words: it’s cold as hell and you are engrossed by the paralysis the sun’s absence always gives you.

The doorbell rings and you are unsurprised by it, as tedium took hold of your poor lazy soul—and you are extremely aware that the most interesting thing that will probably happen in the next hours are your groceries finally arriving.

You move slowly to the door, socked feet slightly dragging on the polished hardwood floor. You are almost excited though, despite your sleepy demeanor. You would have coke and chocolate, and that certainly was a happy thought.

You take the grocery bag, thanks the delivery guy, and goes straight to the kitchen to claim your sugary prizes.

Then you realize something is absurdly wrong with your order.

The first time you dive your hand in the unsuspecting bag you return with oat milk. Weird.

You’re sure you didn’t order that, having long ago given up on your last try of going vegan. But that’s alright, it could have been mixed with your grocery by accident.

On your next dive into the now suspicious bag, you are rewarded with a frozen hog’s head. A fucking whole animal’s head. You stare at it dumbfounded, shock and horror overwhelming you.

After blinking dumbly at it for a few seconds, you quickly put it on the counter, almost dropping it to the ground, as if burned.

For a brief moment the gory thing makes you think of its soul, makes you wonder about its existence. A drunk philosophical though, made possible by the suddenness and depth of your horror.

You look wearily at the now full-on offensive bag.

After a deep breath, you decide to investigate the remnants of the grocery that definitely wasn’t yours. You find a pack of red candles.

For the love of the Lord. As a shiver suddenly runs down your spine, your atheist and hypocritical self starts to mumble exclamations to God.

Compelled by morbid and irresistible curiosity, with trembling hands you reach for another of the contents of that cursed grocery bag.

A broccoli. A fucking wholesome broccoli. Organic even, from a local farm. You kind of feel whiplash. What a healthy satanist, you stupidly mumble to yourself.

You give up on prying upon the grocery items and start to call the store to let them know their mistake. You think of going out of the house for a bit. Yeah, it sounds good.