Unprivated/Privated some stuff.
Check it out, kids.
When I die, I don’t want all of the people who I kinda knew to make a big deal out of my death.
I don’t want anyone to make a big deal out of my death, actually.
I don’t want people to post “R.I.P. Megan” on their face book walls because everyone else is doing it.
I don’t want people, especially people who barely knew me, to tell my parents that they are sorry about the loss.
You never cared about me when I was alive, so don’t think that you have to start caring when I die.
I’m dead. It doesn’t matter. It never will matter.
Give me to the worms.
Geeze, I’m such a pessimist.
The laboratory doesn’t have all the answers.
This is the act of impersonations with glamorous poker faces. Its the knowledge of making eye contact; the art of sin. The worst of the worse cracked spaces. Distance is inevitable but perhaps the mind glimpses of faces will always continue to linger. Reminisce with the intent of not missing this. Heat waves on living room couches. De-tangling of sleep in bedroom mattresses. Air conditioned faces to match the computer lighting. This is even too much for the all knowing to handle. Maybe electricity doesn’t mean a thing. Perhaps the fibs in between breaths signify new structures; reinvent. I’m looking for something that I can’t find in you.
Two and a half feet of electrical pointlessness.
These pores live in a drought. A meeting between water and large glaciers hasn’t existed for a total of five consecutive days. Is this really dreaming, or are these reels of profanity just springing out of chests? There is no longer a need for a source of unlimited power. A charger. There is no dialect being transferred from one intellectual to another, especially when the numerical code has yet to be punched. A comedic stature points towards these imperfections and the crowd is astonished. Did everything really used to be this bad? Hate to break it to you. The clock isn’t endless; hands will drop at four minutes passed morning. Possibly eight, according to the expert an hour and a half away. The credits are taking their place behind the curtain; its nearly time for the joining of palms to greet amateur idealists. When the eyeliner stained fabric swings, don’t expect this physique to be tangled in between sheets. That slight hint of sunshine is starting to open the blinds; cross shadows on faces.. That’s my cue to go to bed.
This is a six second roadtrip with traffic lights inbetween.
These tags on my flesh don’t match my skin tone. This obscene discoloration hits gold, but there is no sugar to fill in the gaps. I’mlosingit. Someone give me hyper-pigmentation and blend it all in with words. All of these fragments are about how you threw me away and I won’t hear the last of it. Your serenading the sun and we’re all just fading. Fast. The screen writer tells me about the most beautiful thing hes ever read. Rain. My carousel flowers don’t even match up to her scarlet letters. Shes written in red; my cursive smudges blood. There’s nothing like pen and paper to him and I want to play both roles. Let me memorize your prints; engrave your whispers on the nude. Things are worse but couldn’t get better. The canines are shouting it and the neighbors have seen every second. Our faces won’t express themselves but they will soon enough. The reactions will erupt once all is well. Figures. I’m providential, try to think otherwise. This is all you’ve ever imagined. What the next girls will commit.
All the money in the world won’t iron your laugh lines.
I can’t play my life in reverse. Constantly, I tell myself that I can’t do this. Not again. But this force between my mind and reflexes just can’t settle. The battle between want and need continues. I need reassurance but this is the only way. It’s not safe-I’m bound to end up next to an I.V. and clipboard stating all my statistics. My blood type tells me I’m pure, with 50 trillion cells and a born into religion to confirm it. All of this commotion states otherwise. My problem is my diagnosis; its incorrect but the “doctor’s” can’t stop smiling. “She is finally doing something good for herself.” Nonetheless, this light just can’t shine my way. I’m the desolated love bird in a cage craving every second of comprehension. All of this angst and self affliction emulates the same dilemma from four years ago. Our clocks keep on marching but so do our diluted hearts. My stomach is eating itself alive, but I can’t stop, not now. These pictures keep shouting and my body listens to it’s rhythm; I can’t dance anymore, at least not to my own beat. I would leave but the portraits on the inside of my eyelids are singing; “nothing tastes as good as your hip bones feel.” There is no prognosis.
