Wednesday

i think.

yup.

i am in isolation. The flat side of my toes is slowly fermenting. When i am thirsty, i slither off my bed, crawl to the nearest point in my flat where water is likely to be available, like a half filled bottle i forgot somewhere, or melted ice from a glass of forgotten coffee. When water is not available, i choose to suffer.

well, not exactly choose, but you get it.

i have depression when i’m not smoking weed. When i am smoking, i have anxiety about the depression that will hit once the high has eked out.
when i am high, i am happy. I guess. I am outside time. I am tolerable, to myself, i have an appetite, and sometimes, i even conjure a cute celebrity to make mental porn with in my head. My libido is addicted to weed, just like me.

She only comes alive when the herb is close. Or maybe it’s a he. I don’t know. I have a cunt and she sings to the tunes of my clitonator, and sometimes she is sad. I don’t know if she is a stamen or a pistil. On buttery enough twilights i admit, or imagine, that i am a modified hermaphrodite. Something with qualities from both sides, but removed to a single display. I have boobs, sure. I have periods, and i make eggs. Biologically, i have a face, a mood.

***

I really don’t get people. Whatever. I know it’s pompous or cliche or whatever. Whatever.

***

like, why do you ask me, are you happy?

why is that the only emotional state you hope to find me in, stagnated?

Won’t you like to know if i am something else entirely, in this quantum moment already slipping-

ask me,

are you curious?

are you night?

are you noise?

are you trepidation?

are you turbulence?

are you lost?

are you home?

are you harmonised enough with the metropolitan chaos to not go batshit?

***

I am, i am, i am. Night and noise and turning ankles and weeping leaves and i am the cigarette behind the mist and i am the soggy chunks that probably fall onto the cold linoleum during a lobotomy. I will soon need one the way i progress. Or regress, frankly. Sometimes, there is no direction. I hover.

but i am not harmonised. How could one, ever?

the onslaught of images, tetrahedral, mangling, creepy AI eyes, love a myth, ganja not yet legal in my wretched town, how is a girl supposed to survive, with all her necessary tendernesses?

no, some part has to go. Some part has to die.

i isolate to prevent going crazy. Or really to just be in control of the way my specific crazy will unfold.

***

it’s inevitable. The decay.

i watch. It helps.

Sobriety guts me. I survive it every day and emerge, an open wound, pulsating for a few smokey sips of my handrolled, pink,

***

sometimes i will zone out in the middle of a line and when i get back to it i cannot recall the trance of thoughts that were pulling me in. Like this, i lose myself, in half scrawled, fading sentences, and i try but cannot come back to it. I start, slowly, this time a little fuller of hope, and maybe latenight berry chunk sorbet, only to lose again the piece of me i began to etch into the flickering tapestries of my switching, licking, thousand minds.

***

maybe i don’t deserve to hope.

***

never mind. I smoked. It is ok. For thirty something minutes, everything will be just fine.

***