Thursday, 14 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Fourteen

Lars visits me. I send him away as he leaves some bestseller. I can the content.

Hug, smile, brief encounter, graphic scene, break up and another one.

Love is from one relationship to another.

It irritates me.

The whole hinting, that I must forget as I get more liquid poured into my body, through that small hole in my vein moisturizing my blood, giving me more chemicals as if I don’t have enough thank you for the contaminated air.

I thank her after she’s gone mentally in my head.

But then what for? This gives me fucking nothing, my throat gets worse up to the point that I consider myself dead. I wonder how many people will actually be at my funeral, how many will grief and how many will spit at my tombstone.

But then I’m not worth it.

I look at the wires stuck to my hand and soon enough the beeping machine making sure that I don’t die, staining their reputation with my teenage blood.

I stare at the beeping machine as its beeps go louder and louder. I cover my ears irritated by the beeps. I kick the wires from my hand yanking the needles in the process results a wound to open. I stand up nearly hysterically, heavily breathing from the drug injected to my system.

What if I wasn’t human, what would I do then?

What if I was a cheese cracker? Would I get dunked in milk, because I'm different?

Of course I was bloody human. I bled like one anyway. I've seen it, maybe someone had filmed it, the real thing. Then I’d have blue blood or whatever. I stare at how my body shakes lacking the warmth coming from my covers and the wounds and my skin drenched in my inner liquid. I grab a tissue and press my palm against the wound.

And I press the red button above my bed.

Daydream Fifteen

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