Take a moment to think about me, sitting around, smoking up time, wasting your time, burning up miles of bad road with a cheap lighter I found under the cushions on the couch.

Take a moment to think about the ways we stood together, not apart, not too close, just standing, just watching the world melt away – so much cheese on  toast. So many candles melting into cakes.

Typing to you while I wait for my nails to dry; why do so few boys know how this feels? Rockers and homosexuals, not even hipsters. Why so few? Why are your fingertips so boring? Your hand looks to me like an unpainted house, or a blank canvas.

Hair too. Can’t you see the future from here? There’s going to be so much fun and adventure, but you really want to look your best, so you can feel your best. I like to feel like a POP going off.

Smooth black polish going solid on my fingers. The passage of time marked in little smudges, like fictional ink running down the world.

(When I went to find a picture to post of “fingernails”, I noticed that most people just posted pics of their own, so I’m doing the same. That’s just a top-coat that’s on, so it’s still pretty smudgy and shitty looking. Though I did manage to include a bit of my shoulder tattoo in the shot, something somebody had asked me to post like, a million months ago….)

You got lost, and I got found. You drifted off to where nobody was, and I wandered into a beam of light that illuminated all my wrong-doings.

You know what would be nice, would be your arms around me, your voice in my ear. I’d like to have a clever idea, and a space to unleash it into. 

When it comes crashing in, I feel like an astronaut abandoned in space. Their friendship has me off and running, but always in the wrong direction.

I swallow her bullets, and start running.

She pulled away, because she couldn’t have it all. I couldn’t tell if I was ever really there, or if I’d just crafted such a well-intentioned illusion of myself that neither her nor I could tell the difference.

My false persona speaks more truths than I seem to be capable of translating.

We wake up all sharp perspectives. I don’t really know which direction to look in. I feel faded in the centre, I feel frayed at edges. I feel punched through and forgotten. I feel like there’s too much attention on my every move. 

I feel too much some days. I need to numb that shit down.

She feels like a bomb, ready to go off between my teeth. She feels like an explosion you could fit into your mouth. She feels like something about to go terribly right and wrong and all over. All over this situation.

Don’t hold me back. Just hold me down. Strip the tattoos from my skin and the lust from my mind. Peel me down to my bare essences, make me a naked mewling creature with no eyes to see and no skin to touch. 

Mark me with your magic. Sign your name across my brain, eighteen feet high and glowing in the night. Make my wishes something brutal and beautiful. 

I make mistakes and they just kind of happen. Personal mistakes, grammatical mistakes, spelling mistakes… Just little slips of the tongue and pen. Little bits of linguistic messiness. 

Sometimes that shit just slides, and other times it does not. Sometimes somebody brings something to your attention, and you’re not like “thanks!” you’re more like “why the fuck is that the only thing that caught your attention? It’s like you’re trying to bring me down.”

Whatever. My mouth feels warm and full of little living organisms, single-celled monsters breeding and battling across my tongue. Little white soldiers on the pink battlefield. 

There are some circumstances under which I am better at receiving criticism. There are some cases where speaking against me will just cause you to lose my ear all together. I can’t sit around all day waiting to find out what kind of a friend you are. You can either speak your piece, or we can move on.

I’m not always crazy about that part of me. “Say something wrong, and we’re done.” But, on the other hand, who wants to waste time on somebody who doesn’t appreciate it anyway? Not everybody is cut out to be your best friend, you get me? You can give and you can give and you can give to some people, and they’ll still just piss on you, out of some frustration that you won’t put them first or love them enough or stroke their ego or whatever.

I dunno. I was mad at “you” last night. “You.” “Them.” “Whoever.” I just love it when I don’t hear from somebody for weeks or months, and then I do hear from them just enough to taste the piss and bile at the back of their throats. Maybe I’m the passive-aggressive dick for taking my frustration here rather than to the person who created it, but what can I say - I’d rather bloody my hands on a punching bag, than talk to you about what a prick you can be sometimes.

Anyway. They’re still deconstructing the alley out back. You can hear the beeping of big things in reverse, and eventually, the heavy metal saw biting into pavement. The endless agony of physical violence and big rock-eating ‘bots.

I’m still deconstructing my own process. Turning my letters in and up and back on themselves. 

I’m going to stop writing, and make coffee for my girlfriend. She’s in the shower, and she’s beautiful. She has a little mohawk, and she just painted it black. She’s a little slip of sexy and dark. She’s like the sexy little anthropomorphic cartoon cat-lady I had a crush on when I was eight years old. 

Out here, everybody’s a monster. Every body is constructed from animated corpses. Every shot’s a shot to the head. Little humans on their backs like bugs, twitchy little legs pointed up towards the sunless sky. Poison in their hearts, and murder in their eyes. This is how we dance.

I dance in the nude, with little letters all stitched in a row.
Won’t you show me your little naked dance as well?