Spring awaits, and my skin is raw & ready for the taking

Unbrushed teeth, shoes with falling soles, but I'm obsessed with cleanness.Molds grow in my room like they are nurtured flowers, nurtured with disregard. 

I grow filth like it is a regulated field of wheat. 

And every autumn, every dying moment I harvest the deeds of a heated summer, fingers deep into the soil, touching my roots. 

Your eyes should ponder themselves glad they can't smell or touch. Most of my creations reek of unchanged bed sheets, feel of shards of torn-off nails. Like shells on the beach they are not sharp IF you know they are there. Small cuts on my finger tips account the times I rushed up and down the places they washed ashore, when it was time to clean, ignorant, colder, WINTER. 

A little story about the now passing winter for you. 

Have you ever clawed yourself through an endless seeming tunnel? Wished for the light at the end? It seems the one I have found myself in is nothing more than the sleeve of my shirt. When it is winter I reserve all my loved clothes for after. I want them unused for when I can show them. So in isolation I separated from my favorite shirts to wear, I prepare for the stage.

My body crumbles under guilt, and it is so heavy on my chest. I must be so flexible to bend my foot to where my air tightens and my chest pains. I must walk so mad with my leg always twisted around my neck like a past-down necklace, don't loose it, this is all we had back then. Guilt like a holy cross I grip in fear of haughtiness. Is my feeling of guilt fundamental enough to compensate for the pain I caused?

A mistake, however small, resembles attempted murder to my moral expectations, not even a god is faultless yet I hold myself to the standard of nature itself, like I am the stone and I just hit another stone but not in the sense of nature (wait a minute...?!) as if I pushed myself on purpose, with bad intent, minus the bad intent. Guilt is never ending, guilt for not feeling guilt.

Am I this cosmos savior, it never goes as far, but close. 

I let it all happen. I am not a victim. I am a savior. I savor holding your head on my shoulder like it is fine cuisine, you tears on my thumb, this is the rain after a drought. Isn’t it all so holy fucking god and soul for me to save. 

The arrogance, the unwillingness to mind my own fucking business.