SKIP IT

I found a patch of skin, not being fed. I'm tending it like a garden, digging out the weeds, the infected soil. I've breached an aquifer and had to manage the co-mingled grey and red ooze several times. I wonder; would it be repulsive if I was digging inside someone else? I think I would enjoy administering injections, probing inside, cleaning; cutting out the bad things, letting the blood escape clean in volume; stitching the skin together; sewing the hole shut. I would enjoy it.  But I never said it would make me happy.

I have never been truly happy. I don't often think about what it might be like. It must be very shallow, like a kiddie pool in the park-- filled with toys and laughter and light physical play. My big head always dragged me down, under a softness-- I guess the place they poured the concrete is still not set. I've got my injuries now for good-- they've proven themselves to me and become Real, like in the Velveteen Rabbit. I've done everything for the sake of some temporary little relief, and that is a game for losers. Losers like me never truly reach for success; never grab it and twist it like the handle of a knife in a lover's back. I'm unequivocally okay with being a loser in a garbage world like this one. This world can suck my fucking dick, basically. I do not give a shit anymore. I never really did. My head always led the way. I've got my extra tissue-equals-weight, like the Elephant Man.  A giant brain case slowly breaking my neck; slowly dragging me down. I've always gone down whether it was allowed or not. I've always gone deep, deep down inside. Then, when I wake up again, I'm always me.  I'm always still me-- just a worse version.

How many more times can this realistically happen?

I was already so tired when I started.