When its emerald eye glimmers in the shadow of the dusty shelf above
I pause,
I sense a presense.

It is not unlike me to attribute human characteristics to inanimate objects.
Give them names and nicknames and quirky character traits based on how their forms bend.

In the flickering lights of a broke wicken sanctuary though, I do not do it out of habit.

I feel it and stare it back down and see my own reflection in the cracked gems that once were a soul.

A gaudy skull.

The kind you see in home video Indiana Jones tributes,
with hats stolen from someone’s parents,
and jackets stolen from someone else’s elder siblings,
and ketchup for blood.

The kind your quirky local manic pixie dream girl uses to hold incense.

The kind I’m about to waste my money on because I’m an adult now and I can use my millennial minimum wage however I want.

I do not become aware of the possessed nature of my new buddy until I take it back home and hear it snicker in the middle of the night.

I know it is the skull, for my roommate is not one to snicker.

(He chuckles when he’s hiding an opinion and has a villainous laugh when it’s coming from a place of sincerity, but that’s beside the point)

I know it’s laughing at me.
I know this for a fact.

It takes me three more nights to call it out on it because I’ve never been confronted with the issue of standing up to a haunted antique I took home from a secondhand shop, possibly owned by satan’s offspring.
But I’m twenty-one years old and still experiencing some firsts, I suppose.

The gaudy skull is exceptionally snarky.
In a way none of my named plants ever were.
Not even Gerard.

He comes for me for the garbage on the floor and the dust on the windowsill on which he’s propped up, and then later for my poor taste in chore-doing music.

I never ask for its name because I know for a fact he’ll make a game out of it
and I am not in the mood for entertaining ghosts.

I come to realise it all on my own a couple of weeks later.
Once the snark starts to wear off,
and domesticity settles in,
and shared quiet becomes comforting,
despite the circumstances.

It is Judas.

I know this for a fact.

You do not understand the extent to which I am certain that it is Judas.
I have never been so aware of someone’s origins in my entire life.
I bought this creepy item and it is now in my room and I’m developing a weird attachment to it and maybe occasionally use it as a paper-weight and it is Judas.

I feel it in my heart and know it inside of my skull that might be standing on someone else’s touchscreen windowsill
two thousand years in the future,
jade stones for eyes even though I specifically requested amber,
but you get ****** over by bureaucracy even after death.

How do I know it is Judas?

Because I feel him stare at me like he wants to kiss me late at night and sense him plotting my betrayal early morning.

I know it is that, for a fact, because I’ve felt this exact sensation before.

My **** edgy room decor is Judas.

I try to get him to admit it himself by talking of past lovers and reading aloud the surprising number of Jesus metaphor poems I have in my room.
I hate Jesus metaphors, but I do it for that sweet sensation of seeing someone trying to dodge the inevitable once it’s coming at them like a mule through Rome piloted by the son of god.

I know he’ll cave eventually and tell me
and I know it’ll be the same caliber of glorious news as Jesus coming out of his own cave of burial,
resurrected and preaching winning.
I know I’ll win.

And I think to myself that maybe I am in the mood to entertain and just haven’t found the right outlet yet.
Maybe history’s most infamous apostle is It.
The original sinner and the original rebel.

(I’m aware it’s technically Cain, the jealousy-ridden son of Adam and Eve, but I only ever count the gays)

Judas and I have bonded.

And I can tell he’s on the verge of telling me his dark and twisted backstory. Again, I have felt this sensation before.

And when it happens, we can talk
about what it’s like being demonised by the one you love
and being the odd one out in your devotee friend group, even though you eat bread and drink wine and worship metaphor just like them.
And how patriarchal institutions distort history to pedal the same tired spiel of everything having a place and everything being there for a reason.

But we both know that isn’t true
because neither of us feel like part of god’s plan or created in anyone’s image.

And we can listen to sad music about wanting to kiss the wrong people together.

And that’s all I ever wanted from a friendship.

I could hear a pin drop.

No, a ball of cotton lightly float and touch down.
Upon a silk sheet.

A speck of dust land on another speck of dust thousands of light years away,
where the colours are inverted negative,
and creatures communicate in a way that doesn’t require poorly worded drunken blurbs
converted into electrons
travelling from one annoyingly loud metal chip to another.

I can hear the electrons converting
and I can hear them laughing at me.

I am a speck of dust upon a speck of dust.
Ungracefully, heavily falling onto my creased sheets.

Alone.

You say you’re the GOAT,
and perceive yourself as oh so clever.
Like you’re the first one to come up with such an impeccable and hilarious acronym.

Impeccable: adj. in accordance with the highest standards;
Just like you, right?
“It’s a double entendre, get it?”
No, sorry, my femininity hinders my abilities of basic thought.
Tell me more…

…******.

You look like the kind of guy
that’s into S&M and taking MD.
Fittingly, you can **** My Metaphorical ****.

Goodmorning,
precious nutcase.
Which side will I face today?
The neurotic one, to my dismay.
I can never tell which one you truly are.
I know, it seems bizarre
that after all this time
still I’m
so painfully unaware.
And I can’t force you to care.

How I hate you, Kerouac,
you made me believe I can live
with the crazy ones.
Oh how wrong was I.
After all this time
I still can’t tell which one’s the lie.
The one that l have to beg
and twist my arm out
to get attention
or the one that sends me
'I miss you's
etched in the sand.

There’s glass shards around my bed
And if I step out I’ll bleed again
I know this for a fact that
With my emotions still intact
I cannot make it through
So unless you’re planning to ignite
My soul and burn it in a cold blue light
I suggest that instead
You climb into my bed
And in the night when we sleep
Whatever dreams may come
I shall welcome them all

You don’t need me
And yet I’m always there

I’m your washed out sweater
I’m your ripped skinny jeans
I’m your tea when there’s no coffee
I’m your back up lighter
I’m your secret cigarette stash

Forgotten until needed
I’ve found my place

In light of recent self-awarness
I try my best to feel
less suffocated
by the instilled ideal
of forgiveness
and more accepting
of the primal, instinctive
need to express
what I cannot suppress

In light of recent self-awareness
I try my best to see
less of the drowning
nerve-racking
ticking
notion that is
The Moment
and more of the ambiently
serene concept of
The Present

In light of recent self-awareness
I try my best to be
less aware
and more myself.