You'll Be The Death Of Me. in Always Recovering, Never Recovered.

I hate you, I just fucking hate you.

You loom in the mirror in fairground distortions, glutinous and grotesque, dripping candlewax grease from the fatty flab of your frame. You cling like suffocation wrapped sweat-soaked around me, a stifling sumo-suit swathing my bones in your glutinous jellyfish flesh-folds. You sit on my heavy on my chest, a revolting bloated corpse, and you snap all my ribs into sharp shrapnel shards that puncture my lungs. Your grip is a chokehold, I can’t even look at you but you carve your image into my eyeballs in bramblescratch graffiti, I close my eyes and you’re still there.

And it’s the moment at the peak of the rollercoaster, the top of the lift-shaft, tilting into the fall, the punch of repulsion a fist hard to the stomach, a physical blow and it knocks out the air and I’m falling, I’m falling. Falling too fast to breathe, my heart kicks my ribs in raging thrash-metal panic, air rattles useless in my raw constricted throat, faster and faster and too fast, northern lights exploding like cameraflash across blurry vision and bitter bile biting the back of my tongue and my frantic clawing fingers are numb and divorced from my body.

I hate you, I hate you, a fury beyond eloquence, burning too bright in magnesium flames, it hurts like heartache. Maggots of revulsion crawl through me, I gouge wet crimson crescents from the fat flesh of your forearms with my fingernails, waxing moons shedding slick bloody tears. I score the frontline trenches of our warfare in parallel tracks along the guidelines of your veins, anything to hurt you, I want to tear you to shreds.

I curl in shivers in the aftermath, crimescene ruin like litter around me and dripping your blood, I’ll regret that tomorrow but now I can’t help it, I can’t help the shaking suffocating sobs that bubble gasping from my lungs, I’m so lost, I’m a wreck.

I hate you, I fucking hate you, I just want you gone. I don’t know how to live with you when all I want is to hurt you, punish you, destroy you. I want my ribs back, the hollows and shadows and hard lines of my skeleton, I’m crying, I’m rocking like a crack whore, I can’t think of anything else. Seven years of crawling on glass and I’m nowhere, still panicked and bleeding and choking on the slimy fatty grease of pure loathing.

I didn’t know, I didn’t know that being better could be worse than being ill.

I’m not strong enough.