This isn’t a dance that breathes with an accordion playing through the night. If only it were beautiful like that…
I’m having one of those nights where I question my art.
I know it’s happening because my body goes, followed by my hearing, and then my vision.
“Oh, don’t mind me.
“I’m just dissociating.”
I’m distraught by the false happiness of my childhood.
So many doors to walk through.
So many pieces to fuse together.
I stand looking at all these empty bed frames that hold all the memories I’ll never have in them and I scream, “I’m dreaming of you!!! I’m wishing and I’m dreaming and I’m thinking and dreaming and floating and thinking only of you!”
Begging and wishing, I look down at my room: I’m drifting and I’m floating.
BUT FUCK THESE GINGER BEER BUBBLES and those drunken memories you forgot when you were too scared to remember.
I’m disgusted at these vaguely suicidal thoughts and the selfishness of my language. All these failed attempts at whatever. This misconstrued forgotten heart! I’ll just blame it on the business of the time.
You tell m…