December 13, 2011

I think I hoard up my pain like a miser with a hundred small bloody winking gems, dripping them out of his veins into a velvet pouch, his pocket bleeding. I grab it all up greedily and wrap it up tight in a pocket-handkerchief. Wait until the right time to pour it all out and count, count, unfold and examine it all on white paper, finger each one until my own fingers bleed, pricked with the sharp edges, the edges that can cut glass…   I save up my pain. I hug it tight and wait. And then I squeeze every last drop out of it that I can, unfold and stroke it, suck it dry…

coax stories out of it. I make myself my own victim, my own tabulations, my own penny-dreadful thriller. Cut-throat killer. I am my own parasite. I am the treasure chest I raid to fund my adventures, the dead man whose pockets I rifle for loose change, the best friend I betray in the tabloids. I wait and use my own pain as paint to colour in the days, to make the white space real with red, black, bruises. This is the blood of my veins these are the fuels this is my clear-sighted, cold-eyed, deliberate masterpiece, do you like it? Do you like it? I have bled for this day do you, do you like it? Me? Do you like me?

Do you like me, wearing my own blood, spilling warm red guts? No? No? Do you like me? Do you like me?

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