Flesh and bones

The things is,I either feel intense emotions or empty all the time, and so I cannot sit with myself without any distractions. At all times I feel the overpowering need to either observe myself or create myself,just simply being is too much for me.

Being too much feels better than being nothing so I fill myself with the hollow shell of something that once was alive to thrive off of its skeleton,the flesh of which I had torn apart with my own bare hands and chewed slowly and very delicately in search of something, anything at all,but it was devoid of blood since the beginning,it's skin was shrinking when I first held it.

And despite it all, arduously,intricately, I still searched for that something.

The irony is,while my mouth was still clutched to its skin,my teeth sinking deeper into it with each passing second,even as the warm saline taste of blood flooded into my mouth,I still believed I could save whatever it was that I was feeding on.

What from,I don't know.How?dont ask me that.

Maybe to me, the very deed of emptying that bare ephemeral suit of skin felt like an act of kindness.

Maybe I confused the intense pain of being torn apart as the euphoria of being so desperately wanted,Maybe that is what I wanted to believe.

 Now I suck on its bones to find even a speck of that initial thrill and I wonder why there's none to it,

 And I am the reason why.

Edit: I genuinely have no idea why I wrote this.