Pretending I'm Okay

My head was elsewhere. Far removed from the constant and deafening city noise that bores into my eardrums and leaves a hollow ringing, as if I was trapped under lake water, and my fingers had turned pink from the November cold. A sheet of fog laid on my range of vision and had created an ocean white I waded through, but I was closer to the sheep in rhubarb fields, the Sulphur Springs, and the moon at 4 a.m. In a variety of greens. Seafoam and Pistachio greens, bryophyte greens, muddy greens. I was a dot on a much bigger map.

On the bridge linking here and there, I seen the Aztec sun like the breath of Houdini, a bellringer. I no longer see butterflies. I no longer see clear blue skies. All the lies I've ever told, looking into eyes, saying I'm fine when I'm not, have created a portal I've filled with vibratos and crescendos. My body is made of five elements, five senses, and my nights of endless dreaming are like waves, the rain pouring down, but when the dust settles I would do it again.

Soil has been upturned. Why won't you love me? I have given you everything. N'est-ce pas? Red ribbons hold me in the air like queries. Sunlight is fed through the funnel, the night bell, like pornography. Men in explicit positions. Finger it, kiss it, worship it, in deep shit. The better it gets, but I have a headache. Darkness is depleted in the hands of Venus. I am intimidated by the thought of going to sleep, but it sounds so good, like a cold drink on a warm day. I want nothing more than peace, but it always gets interrupted like an unexpected arrival wearing shades of colours I couldn't possibly describe.

I see headlights in the night. Christmas lights and streetlights. The glow from my phone as the wind pushes against my neck. The thud of my footsteps gets louder, as I walk deeper into that void in the midnight hours. I think to myself, I'll be on my way. Strange people were throwing glass at me, and talking about how many ways they could steal from me. There was no way I could fight back, but I met a kind man, a black man, singing about how glory was lost. He told me not to hurt myself and suggested I should go to church. We were both there, alone, in the rain, in the dark of the park, by the swans near the isolated farmhouse in the countryside of Scotland.

Sure, I was furled, listening to my ABBA records. After I had read Dust by Rupert Brooke my head was like a metropolis. My wild desires live there happily without my input by icy blue horizons. I don't disturb them with Vito Acconci experiments, I live in the moment, for now, not for toffee-nosed poets of tomorrow, or anything else for that matter. I'm critically affected. The door was knocked off its hinges. Said nothing like a big stoic. I seen eclipses. Dilapidated empires holding up mountains. Set fire to water. Being pulled from both ends. I'm a rose thorn in Indian restaurants. I didn't get to thank you for all the things you do, but I wish I did, always. Carrying foothills. Holding back the tears. I showed my sister where the world ends, where Mr. Gallagher put the broken machines. We mirror each other in our movements. By the Forth and Clyde, the Molendinar Burn, we'd fix ourselves like construction sites. Remember? We were edging through the body's capillaries like flexible discs. Garnished with lilies. We crafted mature scars like spreadsheets of data.

Do you remember how we were tied together with apron strings? Do you remember how we were always there for each other?

I never thought in a million years I'd see the day that the affinity has disappeared like a brook in quicksand. It still cuts me like a thousand knives. I'm adorned with grief that's entrenched in my jar of go to words I peel from your ears filled with possessed dogs, and I sit in silence for I don't know how long. I am equilateral as I prepare my paints. I turn my pain into poems, I polish them, and I recall how two years have separated the time that has been filled with new sisters. The sun covered my mother and left the things I never cleared, and I was so idle I didn't do the housework either. It was peppercorn. I was aimless with nothing important to do or say. In the environs of the receptacle, conundrums dangle over my summer head like a guiltless assortment, a devil wearing the clothes of an angel. With thighs of kiwi. Something crepuscular has awakened a desire in locomotion, and I've fostered the peculiarities of the decadence. Worries have fallen off me like brush wood. 

The attainment turned into something we could agree was not as wise as the mind's circumference which has since expanded and doubled in size, and sparked a numinous thought. The rising of the morning sun is a figure of self-loathing. I've formed an allegiance with optimism, but it won't last. I've plumbed to the depths of despair, and I've yielded handsome quantities of melancholy. Many times over I've made bad decisions, acted without thinking. Seen charlatans and blondes and Sour Patch Dolls on the television.

The things I love are diminutive in numbers, now my stomach is in knots. I am sick from nostalgia. My hand's are covered in yesterday's blood. Kites in the untapped distance. I expect nothing. I've always had to hustle, since I was born in 1998, my birthdate, where I keep my rectitude in a cortex. The compulsion is consistent, like transient orgasms riveting through me like rivers. I tried to separate the albumen from the yolk before harvest, gathered my thoughts, disregarded the knowledge that each excursion amounts to  contradictions. Yes, I contain many truths, many versions. I draw influence from the moon. 

It's the feeling of putting a gun to your head. Imagine a mother in labour. Held down by reservations and inclinations. I have been congested for the last few months, from bone to bone. There's a warrant for my arrest. Baby insomniac. Around odours and stains. Deformities. I'm emotionally confused. Confused by the fool who never learns. I readjust every two hours. Querulous. Dissecting prawns at seven. We never talk about how I feel, or the things we ignore like scarecrows, not because we can't handle it, but because we're afraid of the possible outcome, the long night of insults, and it's easier to live in ignorant bliss. I get it. The pattern is a game of chess. Dominoes. I cling to favourable memories of him. New beginnings. Seed capsules in the red of my mouth where wagon trains find deserted towns.

I've got everything I need, but I want more. It appears nothing but an echo sound remains of me. I drift into spaces and places I shouldn't be. Pouring myself into bottles like I'm yarn-dyed taffeta. Pussiant prince of El Dorado. Serpent. Desperado. Sculpted from paradise. Sculpted from a marbled ocean floor. I am a millwheel. Quicksilver. The shower is the place I feel worthless, where I leave my inhibitions after I've read my horoscope in oily newspapers, where I feel the force of purgatory. Dappled by every confession. Emblazoned. Colossal whispers and optical illusions. Waterfalls of silk never spoken of. In an hourglass. Deutzias and quartz. The red herring with the face of a dilemma.

Two psyches collide. Headbands at the ebb tide. Cosy in a bed that's rosy. The swirl has collected its little thimbles, burnt umber, swimming in a grey mist. Puppy tricks. Hazy world visions. Gallicisms. Ink on the quill. Purified, Intl Klein. Cruising for music with the expectations of a vacation to Greece. Preoccupied with the quandary like an anthropod, writing down the gamut of emotions that has been exploding in my gut at night when my body sweats and exudes its nucleic acid. Blending in with the background and the burr. I was soon calling him daddy. Dazed but understanding. In the firmament's labyrinth. 

The glossy scene between forswearing addictions, relapse, and the shiny line of being impotent is treacherous, hard to differentiate, notably when my eyes are crystals and my head's torn. A monsoon flows through my bloodstream. I am young with dreams. I left my soul for nothing good, mystical water under a bridge. Rinsed out the vinegar. He consumed my aching heart like a wench, and spat me out like I am dirt. I can see no way out of this. I have broken the ordinance of life, smashed it into pieces. The lemon drove into the black spot. Decorated with a bravado. Stars are falling in ample amounts, sucking out the sap from mushroom clouds. I watch the joy from a peephole, in its fashion, like I am a button on the calendar. Relegated. The sky is dying. Blackbirds sing their songs. Bulbs, pickle shrubs, sunbeams. It's an innocent coincidence. A plateau. Honey drips, drips, drips from my sour pumpkin lips. A plant is growing through the window. The pistol sprouts and dazzles me. Spurned horse shapes of cotton balls gaily float. In the dense of my haven with Mulberry sauce and contusions. You make me feel like a stratus. Unwanted and cursed. Time is not my friend, and it never was.