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by Salome

i am going to lose you my dear, but not on purpose.

there should be an analogy about butterflies and this right here, but see. i've already ripped off the wings and smeared the enchanted flying dust. pigmented powder rotating with finger grease as if i could find the purity of a drug in a circular motion. but it all dissolved. he says that the hiss of his cold radiator is the sound of a lie. but i know it is the sound of the subway that takes me to him every morning that i decide to take it and then walk against the traffic of the working class down wind-blown streets lit with early sunlight, looking for a person with that immense amount of faith. looking for that faith in him, that seems to have fallen out of me: gutted entrails result of my own foolishness strewn about as i try to gather them back into the cavity. slippery and cold now. but still through their fleshy walls i feel the pain that once pounded inside of me, thick in my hands, i hold on to it even as i try to forget. thinking i can recover the refuse without the smell. what's it like to be empty?

i need to get the fuck out of here. and by here i mean new york. i mean this fucking planet, i mean being poor. i mean the trap of the economy, the pointlessness of philosophy, the people who have it good who are jealous of me, out of a small town where i have been forgotten at the founder's day fair, and where i have read all of the books, out of the school hallway where the teachers whisper so loudly i can hear about my mother leaving me and my brothers. but they weren't there when she explained that the world was ending with the illustration of a UPC code on the back of a can. here there is nothing like there. here the dirt clings to you, just like it does on the rodenticide warning posters in the subway as you breathe shallowly and look in the direction of the oncoming train.

i wish i had the inclination to drink. the money to smoke weed.

insurance that covered meds?

tonight i have failed, just one in a succession.