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I’m thinking about what I’m trying to say. I’m wondering about the sullied ideas that like to come and play. They don’t ask permission. They tramp through my flower beds and shit on my porch. They have no remorse.
I am not a psychopath, but there is a haze of darkness sometimes. I feel old, polluted, force-smiling … I feel like Anaheim. I fucking hate Anaheim.
Your face comes to me uninvited and it makes me happy and horrible. Sad and seditious. I want to be different, topped with whipped-cream. Delicious. I want to melt inside your mouth. Or on a hot sidewalk. It doesn’t matter so much where. I just want to melt.
I think I would look good as a hardened puddle of human.
You know I love you, and I know you love me. I know I’m not incarcerated, but I never feel free. I second guess myself constantly. And wonder what is wrong with me.
I can paint a pretty picture, but I can’t seem to frame it. I have some weird neurosis, but I don’t feel the need to name it. I live with it. I came with it. Or it was installed at the factory of my childhood. Shit.
Now, I’m not sure. Not one damn bit.
One dam bit the water clean in half. Progress, they said. With a river full of fish that are half dead. With farmers facing growing season with ever growing dread. Fuck progress. We need to go to the future and work backward instead.