Who's eating who?Mature

Day one.

Nothing is as bone sacred as the sanctified sheen of your first real crime against propriety. Except the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth...

You know the echo of nerve-rotten racking sobs of anger settles my bones into position. The plate glass shatters around me and I clear the damage like a newborn ice floe breaking the surface of the ocean. Everything I ever did, from brushing your hair to throat fucking your life with a machete blade, I did as a response to that relentless yes-and improv of the mentally ill. You and me, our junk opera parody of relation and revelation.

This pounding pulse making my veins jump and my spine twist spasmotic, well it only quiets when the trench-wet little monster ticking off bad ideas can really open his box of blasphemies in your direction. You absorb it, grow a little from it, hot-breath Hell blasts sitting in for the sun. The more shit you get, the more fertile your soil.

I'm just repeating myself, strobing to the point of seizure. If you can't hold your tongue, hold mine until my hip bones stop clattering against the linoleum.

Something beautiful ripped me apart today, the dawn after the deadzone.

One clock revolution from now, I'll be patting the carpet for my left contact and my conscience.

Day two.

All my stitches itched. I ripped them open dreaming of flesh eating spiders. Instant gore - sticky sheets in the photogenic way. Jacking off with an open wound to add to the spellcasting. Chanting mantras, wishes, hopes, dreams, curses, fuck yous. It took me a few hours to get the idea. How I felt, it was so familiar. The door was open in front of me, but I didn't step through until I was cleaning and suturing. I was high. Nothing but brain chemicals angling for attention, but it worked. I was high as I'd ever been on anything else and all it took was the right combination of abject horror, blood, physical gratification and pain.

Makes you wonder.

I ripped the sheets up with a utility knife and made use of them in knotwork ragdolls soaked with everything that's me. I hung three over my bed in a graceleSS triad. It weighs on me, a tangible manifesto to my state of mind. PoP art displacing noir film loops I can never ever show you. Someday we'll be able to jack into each other, but not soon enough. These will fade, crumble, disintegrate and it'll take everything I have to try to remember. I've forgotten most of it already.

Thanks, that was beautiful. Don't call me, I'll call you.

Day three.

I don't think even I clocked the depths of the dregs that have stained our feet, and I'm pretty used to looking down. I'm saying something but I can't even hear myself and I can't help but notice that every few exhalations, one is chased by a cough, a handful of unclean blood. Maybe I'm just moving my mouth, not really making any sounds. I feel like I've inhaled wet sand, but I keep smoking because I like the way the smoke weaves in and out of my fingers, polluting them. Making me feel right, where I'm supposed to be. Stained, sticky, unappealing, sick looking. I can't get both eyes up to look at you, but I can clamp one shut and squint with the other and just make out the blur of you and it's enough to make me look down again. I got nothing to say, but I'm saying it anyway. That's why I can't hear anything. Everything's twisting inward, in on itself, loud in my blood but nowhere else.

We base so much on so little and we still manage to curl our lips at the religious. Another nail in the hypocrisy coffin. All I ever had to go on was faith. Me, the most faithless man on the planet. The one that can't even get behind an aesthetic ideology, let alone a philosophical rulebook. But I did it anyway. Because we spoke in tongues. Because we felt the earth move. Because we cried out to the heavens, or at least to the ceiling fan. I believed. I swear to you, I did.

But then I didn't. I can't get it up anymore and there's no little blue pill to make me believe again. Anyone looking would swear that the little quake was just enough to make a little crack, nothing to worry about. Anyone looking would've missed the fact that it's made of sandstone. I stepped over the pile of rubble to tell you. But I can't even tell if you heard me. I can't look. And I'm not listening. I mean I can't hear.

Naw, I guess I was right the first time. I'm not listening.

Don't mistake faithless with loveless. Don't mistake how it is with how I wish it were. I'm exhausted by the time I blink for the first time every morning, but I get up anyway. And I'll keep going anyway. Now I know I could replace my heart with a new object every day and I wouldn't notice the difference. Self-replicating, naturally produced local anaesthetic. And no sympathy. I told you before who I am. You knew going in.

Wanna make out?

The End

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