Dysphoria

You told me a couple times that it reminded you of the lake four miles or so from here, but it doesn’t remind me of a damn thing. And maybe, that’s what makes me weird. Maybe it should remind me of all the times you ridiculed me and bit me, grinding holes into my pupils and laughing like it was all o.k. How you’d chase me with fire even when I rode across the skeleton, and weaved through the bones like a drunk driver. Why doesn’t it remind me of that?

I hate the taste of it, drugs in my vomit, in the toilet swirling. I can’t smoke, just eat. I’d rather vomit in the lake that you told me about because I want you to be miserable too. A hollow little fuck, sitting there like you need me to live. Too bad I don’t know where the lake is. Maybe I’ll ask you some day when I lies are over, if they are ever over.

Swine can’t fly so they’ll make a little machine first, like the one I slipped into your honey dreams and needle’s cry.

They were parading down the mountains into the murky gray lake, that I could never find and never reach. I saw those cubed monkeys smiling at me, and for a moment, just for a moment, they were the only thing I ever loved and cared about. And I adored them, running up to them I greeted them calmly, but they ignored me. They kept walking into the lake and I followed, red eyed. I saw you at the bottom of the lake you were smiling too, and the disfigured monkeys danced around you.

It was then that I was reminded of the scissors and the stapler, and the pens in a cup, and the desk at which the ink beamed, and there was a hefty sized man at the desk eating potato chips and wasting staples randomly by punching them into the desk. That’s all I was reminded of, and I wish there was more than just that...