Surrealist gesture

I want to run from you. I’m so tempted to use you. To subvert you. To crawl inside your head and shake the dust from the shelves. I feel a weakness in myself when we make eye-contact. I feel unsure, confused. I’ve no idea where I’m going but I want to string you along as I decipher the signs. I want to please the flesh. Confuse and obfuscate the senses. The drugs don’t work anymore. I need to throw everything off the track and pretend to focus. I love to teach as I fuck.

I watch the colors bleed, forever morphing into whatever I do, feel, or say. Doppelganger! Ersatz! Constantly scrambling to every vulnerable moment like a starving tick. Co-dependant and addicted to anything but yourself. A consistent contradiction. “the tenacity of the cockroach”, does that phrase mean to you what it does to me? When you slump to the mirror and manage a glance, do you see it seeping from your pores? I doubt you even have pores…VAMPIRE. Please tell me you’re not so deluded as to completely ignore the obvious fact that you are not who you so desperately wish you were. You’re a common tourist, a meat-eater… just a sense of under-evolved pollution. You’re a vague representation of an individual… you’re exactly like you were when we met.

I can admit that truth, and I am the stronger for it.

This took absolutely no effort on my part, and that is precisely the point. Fool, charlatan… the uninvited.

pop, neo, post, garbage…

Do you like to imagine me as the weaker? Do you think I couldn’t divorce myself from your pathetic, used up flesh in less than a second? Why have I wasted this much space on you? You seem to be worthy of not much more than a parenthetical aside (at best). I have no need for your artificial wounds, and I can’t wait until the fall.

If you’re going to prance around like a whore, at least do it with even the most rudimentary amount of grace. Have some decorum you pathetic little fake. Every gesture used to hide. Quit playing the filthy roll of overcompensation (desperate attempts to force some knowledge of your indiscretions, your obviously fabricated life, into my view. Ask yourself: have I ever asked? Even once?) The unbelievably dramatic cliché. DISGUSTING! Compulsively trying to rub your worthless existence in my face. I laugh loudly and watch you try to siphon some meaning out of anyone, hungry to latch on to someone with something you could never have. Desperate to be an artist through proxy. Trying to greedily fill up that hollow woman that is you.

            Go play out your sick maternal neuroses somewhere far away from me. Your ridiculous, smothering, condescending and sycophantic idea of love. Like both your gaping yet empty holes staring back at me, constantly vomiting up a foul smelling nonsense. Spreading you so hard I’m hoping you’ll split apart. Digging so deep your ass bleeds out all over my muffled fingers.