dead food.
dead food. quarantine stories

aryelee trust in the stars // semi-hiatus
Autoplay OFF   •   3 months ago
what's the point of cooking when we're all going to die anyways?

(a quarantine depression poem lol)

dead food.

we pretend because we don't know any other way to live.

it's a constant push-pull of denial

screaming out lies like it's all we have left of something normal.

no rivers or lakes here to cleanse our flesh in;

we're dust-covered memories,

distorted and half-gone ghosts stuck in unburied bodies haunting our own homes

because where else could we go?

time stopped feeling real when the batteries in the clocks died.

everyday is the same heavy weight on my chest; i am tied down to this place, trapped where i once felt safe.

we're all tired these days. lonely too.

haven't seen a face outside my dreams

(not even mine)

search through the ashes in the old fire-pit --

i used to throw in newspapers as a kid but the only fuel i have these days are diary pages full of smudged lead.

nothing in the world feels right;

the universe shifted two inches left on its axis and now we're all waiting to die.

so i stay home in the silence, emptying my pantry as the weeks pass.

the small space of mine outside is overgrown;

when i'm out there i am not part of the world and that's the only comfort i can find now.

(it's the only place i am real and non existent. it's the only place i can hide.)

i don't cook anymore. i only taste ash on my tongue

and the food's rotted anyways so it's not like i'm missing out on much.

by 8pm the sun is long gone

but the sky is still a burning orange; atmosphere on fire like the fifth apocalypse this week.

and i close the curtains make instant ramen on the old gas stove

adding enough spice to make my mouth burn

because i was once aflame and i want to taste something familiar.

even if it hurts me.

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