10/25/2010
San Francisco, CA
I hear faint sirens and a hairy laugh as I lay restively, clinching to my bunk bed. I am 22 years old. Picture me as your stalwart child, but your feeble-hearted man. Nosh me with tea and cookies and drape me with your Christmas lights. I live with a mother that bears not one child. I live with a mother that gives a glacial meaning to nurture. Hiding behind squalid blankets, chewed up earplugs and my heedlessly faithful feline pillow. I tremble to hide. I cling to this unholy mess. I spawn a map of my own false life inside in my own mind in order to escape the falsely mapped out life of mine. Privacy in this house is about as common as tits on a tot. We’re all children in this house. We are adolescents in receipt of a steal, while our trusty proprietor serves as our towering baby monitor. She remits the smell of ghastly household love underlined by cruel hands. Feelings I receive as I give heed to her disquieting footsteps emit irritation never taction. I continue to pity myself engulfed by limp yet convivial curtains, decrepit yet charming walls and dismal children. Rene is gone.
Do I have friends here? Am I comfortable? My days are consistently dreadful. I find myself aching for any sort of buoyant thought that’ll give me the slightest sliver of merriment. Why do I decorate my thoughts in such a way that forces me to wallow in my own shit and piss? Why do I continue living this life if I foresee an uneven plodding future? I masturbate in the cleanliest of places. I fucking lie to all of your faces. I am buried from the holiest of bases. What the fuck is my life? Laying and lying and lying with dreams of laying, I sit. If I could take a seat, I would sit, but my ripened body has outgrown this patch of life. In this house, I am a child. In this house we are all children. In this house we have no say, accent, tone, manner, pitch, yet I force myself to endure the grumble. My gripes are your acclamations. My applauses are bashful whelps. My savage language yields my cry and I fucking loathe everything I have been. I wither and shrink down to your level of gloom and your wavering diseased mindset, but I am not your child. I am not a fucking puppet to be gawked at. I am a fucking human. Look at this gaze on my desolate face and take everything that isn’t yours. Take me, fuck me, swallow me, kick me, and penetrate my fucking existence in order to revel in this illusion of delusion. Allow me to feed your paunch with my bread. Allow me to stimulate your pleasures upon my afflicted age. You speak openly and sincerely, but your door is ajar. Obstructed and warped from the rain.
