Click.

 

 I was yours.

I could ever only belong to one.

The moon is hanging low, looking like it’s auditioning for the Turkish flag. Spent my night watching documentaries curled on my roommates floor.

She is a photographer.She looks like a flapper on a  cigarette card from the 1920’s.Her mouth a tart cupid’s bow. Her eyes full off storms and black coffee. If you amplified her heart and asked it to sing, Tom Waits would come growling  out of the speakers. She has elevated the migrane into an art form.

She is my friend.

Click.

Her eyes are blades.She dissects and reassembles me in the blink of an eye.

Every frame a Punch.

And your older.(click). And your older .(click) and your older and older and degenerating and your value goes down.

“Oh baby!”  the lens says to me “Its a buyers market but no one’s selling.”

( You told me.But I’m not telling….)

I lie to it. I want it to think that I am something special. To think I am so cool.

You don’t have to care about such mundane things now do ya baby boy?.There will be always someone to pick up the bill and the peices. You were always too beatiful for me. A palm springs peach.

I used to think that if you had of kept wanting me that I would have lived forever and that we could have done anything and that you would have kept me safe. But you get so bored once you break your toys doncha’ angel?

Precious?

Once I was but not now. Now I am trash.I am a scar collector.

Now I am here and you are there. You and me hurt. Me broken. Me dirt.

Click.

She shoots with nasty flash so you can see everything that’s wrong with me.Big red eye giving flash .Merciless. Every mark and scar.No more smoke, no tricks anymore. I am ugly as fuck,human roadkill and caught in the moment.

I flicked through them and noticed all the bruises I have on my legs. The deep mean cuts set in lurid gangrenous looking pools of pain. Black to green to yellow.Tasty.When the katana catches me,tears  me a little to show me who’s boss when I train without focus.

I am not the boss.The blade is the boss. I do my own stitches now. Who says you are ever too old to learn something huh?

What happens when I drift away and don’t halt the moment.

Blades have no mercy so I dab iodine on the cuts and get back to it. Stitches can wait till after the shower. Duct tape will surfice for now.Soak it off in the water,tie it back together over the sink.Doesn’t hurt if you do it quick.Don’t jab in too deep, skim the dermis,keep it on the surface.The cotton will rot out within a few days and voila!

 Does hurt if you use dental floss.Found that one out the hard way.

Click.

I push this corpse so hard.I have become my own experiment. I live only to see what damage I can do to it.How far I can push it,starve it,fuel it,reshape it.

(Good dog Michele! Good dog….Now play dead!..)

And Miss Lilli takes the honest pictures. Glamour is dead here.Frame by frame I destroy myself.

Click.

I am an ugly animal.My bones have shifted to lupine planes.Dead eyes.Blade jaw.

Click.

So that’s me.

All dark circles under the eyes,hangdog mess.

What a fucking prize.

As I am .

On the tiles.On the edge.

So hot that thinking makes you sweat. I stay up all night and write. Play my guitar some. Press some weights.Try and make friends with the tiny kitten that I see stalking the lonesome perimeter of my yard, he doesn’t want a bar of me and I think that I need to get a life. Oh that’s right, I HAD one!

Fat lot of fucking good it did me ,so….

(Cue me heading for my bench press again.)

I sat on my sweat slicked bench feeling too big and far too present in the sun today.Between sets I tick and ping like a cooling engine. I give the clothesline my patented stink eye. (“Hey motherfucker!”) I like to practice. To see if I can get to levels of Clint-ness. As one does.

I wish for a .44. A hand cannon. For a passport with a whole new me on it.

I would go. I would be one of the missing.

You kept me company today. The you that used to crave me like a narcotic.The you that slept behind and inside of me,chin tucked into the back of my neck under the weight of my hair.That you.The one that liked me.The one that thought I was the cat’s meow.

The you who claimed to love me.The you that I believed.

That Guy.

My run was heavy.Lead-footed.My hip thinks its gotta get away from my leg.I tell it that it that divorce is not an option and to shut  the hell up. I carried a dull ache and the shape of your words dripping down the knotted length of my spine.

Nobody saw you like I did. Saw through you like I. And I was never loved until you decided to do so. So that’s where I went, that was the room that I unlocked today. Where you loved me. Where you couldn’t keep your hands off me,where you bent me and…well,who cares right?

So there I am. Like a fuckin’ lab rat.Running in circles. St Scumbag of suburbia ,clicking over kilometers in lieu of novenas and Our fathers. My father? Well there’s a  joke with no punchline or pay off. You two would have got along so well…

My body nothing.Untouched.Because that was the deal that I made with myself  because I believed that we couldn’t fail.

Without the writers there is no history.

I wish that I felt something for myself.Even a little benevolence.

I feel nothing. I don’t touch myself. I can’t come.

Porn leaves me numb. I give up. I gave up. I have given up.

Life as I knew it does much of the same ,it leave me numb.I watch and pretend to sing along.

Is this liberation? Is this where I really begin? Everything I invested in gone. Gone for years like family that I never had or gone for months,like us. Fresh meat, fresh wound. Purification.Viral. Lost. Lose. Misplaced. Missing.

That you thought I would ever be with another. I have to laugh. You will find another host .You warned me…

I gave myself to you till the grave. You were the one who looked through me. Who looked past me and my noble heart. Your beauty guaranteed that you would aways find a new piece of ass to destroy.You informed me of this fact yourself while I was bending over backwards,killing myself  in the process of trying to please you.

I don’t sleep.I pass out. I wake up crouching in the middle of the room.Or curled next to the gold chest at the foot of the bed. My sweat smells like lemon rind and dust. I am cursed.

Fear. Its the fear of being left. Thats what I am going to credit it to. Of putting everything that you are into one set of hands.Is that why you pushed me till I broke and left me no choice?

I was made for you,you dipshit. Built to your specifications. I was so ripe that my ass was dragging off the vine.I wanted you to pluck me.Suck the juice out of me till your chin looked like a glazed donut.

I was yours.

Wedding dress. Shroud.