Hands Up.

I can feel you sneaking around out there, anxiety. With dreary leaves plastered upon your face; those ones that fell from the trees after hanging on the entire year through warmth and death and the end of things. You lurk around every corner with vestigial faith pouring from your palms like kool-aid flavoring. Or like blood. And you fear yourself. It's so effervescent: your power is self effacing. You humble yourself with the way you tear everything down. I am wrapped up in you like the traces of a past spent losing oneself in manic drug intake and breathing techniques. We find ourselves on our last breath together in the diving bell looking into one anothers eyes saying in unison, No Need. No Need. No Need. There is no need for all of this confusion; this earnest yet tense desire. All of this unease scratching our wrists bloody as we climb rooftops in an electrical black out. All of this tiresome writhing in the blood speckled crawl space of this life we work together to pacify. We work together to convince ourselves of the woods and their looming darkness. We work together to haul up the mossy remains from the sapphire labyrinth of salt surrounding the land. We work together to make the wreckage come back together. But it won't will it? Until there is a defining crack of lightning across the lonely prairie where the cattle wander with bellies full of dust, the pieces won't join hands. Hacking and losing our tears in the once fertile soil, we won't bring it back together until we reason with one another that we must distance ourselves from one another. There is no need for us to hold eachother so tight. For intimacy of destruction begets goodbyes, and loss is a gaining of a future: There is no need to tell ourselves we are the same, anxiety.