Inherently messy

Let's not talk about the insomnia or shaking, stuttering. I want to explain it better but there's no point to it, as there is no point to listening out for the inconceivable chorus that explains the meaning in all this. Pretending and trying to imagine being different someday whilst circling this dark drain of autumnal months, praying for courage by picturing it but each image grows progressively more whitewashed and my fears rattle at my skin like poltergeists. Unsettling and intricate in all the wrong ways again. Ceramic abrasions of sky, dismantling of bones, the stale symmetry of a calendar and finally whatever it takes to cut through the restless anaesthetic and disappear into the whirlpool at my feet. No defence, no preservation. Always inherently messy. Always a crumpled moon.
I won’t talk about the worry or the nights I've felt ghost wings at the back of my throat, fluttering static, nervous in my mouth. Or the way my skeleton under its layers of flesh spawns hideous thoughts about self-destruction and demolition and the way my eyes used to appear possessed. The tripwire only stretches so far, and we have miles to go. The confusion spreads, and it locks itself around me, a silence, an obscurity, weighing a universe. We can have soft conversations about the hunger, about the shadows that linger beneath our bedsheets like revenants from the fairytales we read as children. I've tried to explain mourning with no place to call home. What happens when this however-long-it-will-be epoch ends, when I am not any lesser of a disaster, when we all become  intangible iterations of our parents, the swimming pools flood and the birds come to live in our chests and we forget the words to express what we need? What happens when we become nothing but dead air on an old radio? Let's not think about it. Let's talk about schools of philosophical thought and musical arrangements and faraway horizons instead.