I come from a sleepy little hellhole that churned out a couple more humans than it knew what to do with, so it took their lives: some with shotguns; some with bricks; or maybe
they took them of their own accord.
It’s hard to say what’s predetermined and what isn’t.
I guess it’s all a matter of what you believe, but there isn’t much left to believe in anymore –
just the shadow of a man etched into the back of that old decrepit farmhouse you’ve driven past 100,000 times but God Damned if you still can’t remember the color of the front door.
And whether or not you think you act upon this world or it acts upon you doesn’t matter, not in the slightest,
because either way, a relatively undesirable target is to blame for the things that happen to you that you wish just wouldn’t.
But they do. And they will.
And the door’s still closed, it’s always been closed (what fucking color was it?)
and nobody has ever gone in because you’ve never seen it happen and you’ll never know who or what lives in there or why and someday it will burn down or just be gone and their eyes are on you they’ve always been on you and their eyes never close and lord knows your eyes can’t look away fast enough –
and there’s nothing here for any of us
and none of us are here enough
spacemortuary is an aspiring tattoo artist from the Pacific North West who’s just out here tryin to draw as many flowers and spread as much hope as possible. pancakes and strawberries and twitter @spacemortuary