I Will Be Myself, And If The World Rejects That Then I Will Reject The World, And Make My Own Place.

I don’t want to die knowing sadness last. I want to die in a happy moment. I want to die on the beach when I’m 8 years old, and I’m boogie boarding right for the first time. There’s salt water in my teeth and the sun is shining. I want to die suddenly. My head hitting the bottom of the sea floor hard and fast. I want to die a happy child.

A Bother

I don’t mean to be a bother, I really don’t. I just can’t help but ruining everything all the time.

You don’t ruin everything silly.

Breakfast?

Well yeah but that’s one off.

Mom’s anniversary with dad?

That was an accident.

So I’ve said. If I told you it was on purpose would you be mad at me?

Well, no, I’m not mom but I’d be shocked. Why would you spill wine on her at dad’s grave on purpose?

I genuinely thought it would make her laugh. Because dad spilled wine on her on their first date remember?

Ohh, right. I didn’t think of that. Did you tell her you were trying to recreate that moment? She loves telling that story.

No. I felt so bad about it I threw up behind some lady’s tombstone over the hill. Mary S. Timbleton was her name.

You never told me you threw up on a dead woman’s grave.

Behind it.

Nearly there anyways. Makes for a better story. Dad would’ve laughed.

He was certainly a better storyteller than I am.

I like your stories just fine. You’ve yet to ruin one of those.

Thanks. I think.

I just want to paint and forget a while;

Yes just a drop of wine, and a fan brush for blusher,

And my portrait will smile as wide as I do.

Splinter my dream into a web of cracks and gaps.

Take what little splash of anticipation I have pestering my rancorous mind and freeze it, immobilize me.

Take me where you want to go.

There was a worse fate than death, I found, as the god I once worshipped laid his hands on my very soul.

To be unmade.

I reel back from the sunlight every time it caresses my cold skin, cooing in vein for me to love it back. Nothing can bring me to it. I have been burned before. I have been honest and I have been present and I have walked in the damnation of the daylight and I will not make that mistake again.

I will make it again. I will make it again. If only to see the sky, I will make the awful trek from hidden to known, again.

While the humans lose fingers in factories, the robots produce artwork with too many. Dystopian novels were amusing once, when I was not living in one.

Loving cruel people doesn’t change who they are. It’s like holding a morning star to your chest hoping it’ll become smooth. It just leaves you bleeding.

I will make up for lost time.

I will make up for lost time.

I will make up for lost time.

I will make up for lost time.

I will make up for lost time.

I will make up for lost time.

I will make up for lost time.

Is everyone on the verge of completing and utterly losing it?

Or am I here on this cliffside alone?