Scribbles | Juxtaposition and some Kübler-Rossian Stages
The international day against homophobia. Redheaded chicks leaving ads F searches F on the net, attached a picture of their three year old baby boy. Dykes playing house with someone else's kids. Looking at those curls, and your lover's straight, sleek hair.
Jesus loves you and does he now? Tripping on the modern day missionaries who smile and smile until you tell them how much you miss the smell of aching, dripping cunt, how you love to plunder inside and make a woman scream, and is that a dilation of the pupils you see before they grimace and recoil in fright?
Two weeks until your delusions will meet with cold hard reality again, two weeks during which the longing intensifies and your mind is ever increasingly filled with ancient sepia images of talking with her, laughing with her, feeling self-conscious and lost and so loved. And then the return to 2008, her pleasant acquaintance face and his glower or maybe malicious delight, schadenfreude.
Fewer and fewer times you don't feel stupid and dirty after those nights out, always just barely saved by Bad Things, misfortunes or material loss or maybe being caught doing something that is less illegal in some places but the price of which isn't just fines but selling your soul.
Monday to Friday fading to black and white, stillness and biting your lip because you've decided to stop everything, and red highlights behind which you feel smart and mature. Provocations sometimes projected into cold haughtiness that makes you feel bad afterwards. Not so bitchy, never sincerely gregarious. People keep existing in your world and you don't know what to do with them, there's so many.
Sometimes in the corner of your vision, old, old jeers that expanded until the 90s gave birth to images of standing on a cliff and being in control.
Obituaries in the Sunday paper make you cry, as do the trailers of romantic comedies, but you never lie punching the floor anymore, and the showers get shorter and shorter. Faces you don't remember that made you trust that little bit less even though you used them equally. And people you think you should've loved you want to say fuck you to.
Others, needing to beg forgiveness from, but never allowed to tell them why.
Children in the line of fire, about to be crushed by narcissistic, unbalanced pseudo-adults, born here with too little air, and sent back and forth like pets. If you stop dreaming completely you might take them in, and you'd shelter them like your old plushies and teach them to love Adagio in G minor with their milk coffee in the morning. And donning your huge black aviators that make you look famous and sexless, you'd take them to the park where people seek each other out based on the characteristics of their dogs, and you'd be a misplaced superstar and the redheads would flock to you.
And so they might have lived happily ever after.