‘Increasingly Volatile’ by spacemortuary


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

just 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
for anyone

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


‘name a god before it’s over’ by spacemortuary


you can’t breathe, i know.

i get it.

i can only speak when you ignore me.

luckily –

(whether for you or for me) –

you always do.

look, there’s this tape, a fucking cassette, this neurological mess of thick black tape rolled neatly into this godawful crinkling static VHS that i cannot claw out of my fucking skull no matter how hard i try probably not even if i poured acid all over this shitty hunk of meat encased in bone atop my stupid fucking neck no matter how hard i try lord knows i have tried and my flesh crumbles at the memory alone so FUCK YOU.

i still wake up with lungs full of mud.

it’s not a metaphor for what you think it is.

you don’t get it, you don’t care, you’re still ignoring me.

i’m so tired. i’m so tired of watching that fucking tape. yes, i fucking am how would you know otherwise and just because sometimes i play it at will doesn’t mean i like it, it doesn’t mean i like it and you won’t ever understand why i do it so stop trying.

it entered me freely. i don’t know when. but i let it in.

look, sometimes i just want a reason. and you gave me one i can play back over and over and over and it doesn’t stop and it goes over and over and over and

just pick one already and pray.

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

‘The Clarity That Follows’ by spacemortuary


It has been 131 days, and I am starting to lose sight of why I’ve bothered to count.

I am afraid. The clouds above appear stagnant and unreal, almost as though I might have cut them out and glued them there, recycled from a memory I’ve chosen to forget. They are familiar to me in a way that seems dangerous.

I am afraid.

It is one thing to feel alone, and it is quite another to realize that there is no company in any reality but oneself. This preoccupation of mine is troubling enough to rob me of even the comfort of my dreams, and there is nothing in this world that can alleviate the ache but me. Instinctually, we turn to others for guidance – they, too, are afflicted by the human condition, so surely, they must be able to provide some insight…? No. We are all just as lost as the others. There is neither peace nor solace in that. There is no underlying poetic wisdom. We are all doomed to speculate until, finally, we rot.

I wasn’t meant for this.

Had I been, perhaps I’d understand what to do with my body when it feels so horrifyingly out of place in any space larger than my bedroom. For a species gifted with the art of communication, we succumb to silence so easily.

I miss the days that weren’t worth numbering, the ones that melted together, twisting into some conglomerate that apparently equates to existence. I miss them, but I can’t have them back. I can never have them back.


The unkempt stone tile of every public restroom is essentially the same in terms of temperature and appearance, I’ve found. Standardized. I’ve hidden out in far more than one or two of them; my legs are used to the chill. I am no stranger to excuses, but I have passed the point of transparency, and shame is not unlike misery in terms of its tendency to shy away from solitude.


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