I didn't exist in the 90s.
That's right, i just turned eleven.
Just his little slice of jailbait.
I also have a disco ball.
It lies to me and i'm afraid that one day,
Apprentice will overpower master.
I'll die peacefully in my sleep.
It tells me i am lame
And that it will kill me with a mustard packet.
All the sunshine is gone.
There is only mustard.
And everything i eat tastes like malice.
One day, i will conquer it.
I expect it to bleed.
Sparkling in the dark.
You shall glow no more, silly inanimate object.
Revenge is comfort.
Soft, lovely comfort.
Fuzzy blankets and lentil soup.
Now i can sleep.
He calls it "spending quality time together."
I call it getting laid.
Focus on my voice, darling.
Can you hear me?
Do you know what i think?
what i feel?
what i do?
I could lie to you, my dear.
I could feed you bullshit and tell you it's chocolate.
Would you taste it?
Would you overlook your senses for my trust?
Sweetheart, i don't trust myself.
Why should you?
Focus on my eyes, darling.
Can you see them?
Can you see into my soul?
Locate and analyze myself?
Don't be ridiculous, child.
I don't have a soul.
They're eyes, dear.
Not portals into my secretive thoughts and feelings.
I must be allergic to awesome, because you're making my throat close up.
Seriously. I can't breathe.
So go find me a doctor and fuck off.
Today i pulled a Dr. Manhattan.
I went to Mars.
Here, i can build my own little sandcastle.
I am ok here;
i am ok with myself;
i am ok without you
Sometimes, i am alone, and i look in the mirror and i am not sure if i am there.
I feel my body, but it's as if it is not mine.
This is not me.
This is not my life, and i do not know what i am doing.
And then i let myself go.
I am around people, and now i am free.
I am stupid and bitter and i say things that i shouldn't say, but i do it anyways because i am stupid and bitter.
And then i wonder why people like me, because i sure as fuck know i don't.
I'm going to Mars sometime soon. You can deal with your own problems then. I hope you're still alive when i return.
It's cold in here.
It's cold in here and my motivation is broken.
It's in the corner, down in a heap on my shag carpeting.
I should vacuum but i'm too brain dead to care about the state of my floor.
I'd rather lay here, in a heap on my bathroom floor,
Listening to gypsy punk and learning about burrow owls.
Later, my creativity is flowing.
I spit sentences onto sketchy pages
Cover them with subconsciously related pictures.
I rediscover drawing charcoal
And smear a dusky porch view out.
Glass boxes whir and ripple around me.
I fantasize about what it would feel like
To have my lungs flap open and sweep with water.
Sometimes I wonder if i'm dying.
I think of you and i am OCD about the spots on the floor.
I must step center on them in order to be content with myself as a person.
Must you yell every thought that jumps into your brain?
Must you share any part of your life with me?
Gas money, Harris Teeter, birth control.
You make me doubt humanity.
I don't know your name, but i don't feel guilty at all.
I smile anyways, and remember Legos.
I'm certain you're surprised, as if i should know you.
As if you're cool enough to be known.
You likely know me.
My reputation is whispered and faulty at best
But i don't mind that i fuck acidic boys
And hardly care if you know.
I'm not trying to impress anyone.