#ch: unknown

[holywitchkid]

       The way these people interacted was a vortex. Couldn’t quite tell if it was vapid and insincere or if that was just what was always told of. To be an outsider looking in it was easy to spot the faults. To keep things at a brushes stroke and be the eye was easy. On the surface it was what you wanted it to be. It was telling a story with one simple canvas. It wasn’t blank anymore because there was color and texture. The jealousies and the way an eye could twitch at the mention of something so trivial showed through through discretion— it was reality that was harder to master. 

       Taking the time out to face the bright and sunny—in reality LA was absorbed in a sheet of smog and the temperatures not as ideal as they were let out to be. Also when your wrist bone protruded more than usual and you could feel the chills of hunger being eaten by it’s own cravings well...everything else felt relatively cold. Better than what was known before sure, so there was hardly real room to complain. 

       ‘Okay, I’m out. Love ya but I swore on an ancient artifact i’m pretty sure they used in Indiana Jones that could mean the End of Days for me if I don’t go..” then something about a cat... How some people floated by, barely a waif in the corner of my eye like they controlled the whole block. It’s beyond. But it’s powe—

        —A car horn honks, ‘Asshole! Fucking move!” Within seconds you could be brought out of your trance, just by walking the streets. Something so powerful as a car horn. Rips where it’s supposed to, it’s supposed to bring attention. It should cause you to jump but how exactly does that help anyone? The guy walking across the street could have a heart attack right? He wasn’t even walking yet and the face behind the wheel’s agitation was just high enough to do something....maybe that made him a hero for that moment to the slew behind him. Or the most hated man alive.

         Can’t tell if this place is friendly or not. It doesn’t eat you whole like New York does. That place is a roller coaster without the brakes. This place is a roller coaster alright but it’s on the incline. It’s damn near impossible to plateau let alone feel the rush of falling. It’s people upon people too just these people all seem to have an agenda.

          “Hey....hey. Sorry, Hey hold up! You dropped this....”

        I should say something. She’s pulling his chain—he didn’t drop anything. But should I? For all I know this is how something pronounced starts. 

         Whether it’s self serving or something their told will make an overall impact. Everyone here is trying desperately to escape. That’s the biggest difference I can muster. Could be drugs. There’s loads of that here. Not even Skid row types—now I know, drugs are everywhere. But here it’s different. It’s in an inbred reflection; it’s your casual stories of course because this place is filled with transplants it’s people who have adopted this place as their home before even hitting the ten year mark. It famous people’s kids. Famous people who come form bumfuck Idaho, it’s youtubers now and it’s all colliding discreetly of course with it’s other newsworthy component, the seedy side that’s never gone away. The hills have eyes, the hills have veins in need of tapping....all of the above. 

        But there is an electricity. Of course there is. An energy here that keeps the masses flocking. Keeps people here. 

        Keeps them coming back. The smoking twenty five feet from an entrance a nuisance for some— for others, a godsend. It’s a cold place. Where smoking that cigarette could feel like all fingers pointed. That you’ve somehow contributed to the cities very demise.  For all intensive purposes that cigarette is your lifeline and you’ve just been shamed. No one sees you now, not outside the smoke halo.

       It’s hard to read this city because it’s a place full of hopes and dreams, its the city of angels. oooh someone pass the wine. I’ve got the cheese, I know...but it’s a load of shit too. Depending who you encounter, and chances are depending where you walk you’ll see what you want to see. It’s all just a city. A big city, full of bright lights and pretty things. But none of it’s really pretty. You have to dig deeper for that. You have to ride the roller coaster. You take what’s handed and you make the best of it, you let it show you the colors and the black and white. Because otherwise you’re sitting on a green roach infested sofa trying to draw rotten fruit in a bowl. Trying to paint a picture you only wish you saw——

[latibule]

“Sure, we had no audience but each other, but what kind of supervillains would we be if we didn't keep up the drama?” ― Richard Roberts, Please Don't Tell My Parents I'm a Supervillain

[holywitchkid]

        It was one of the many places she’d laid her head to rest once the moon took over as the only source of light. Nothing fancy—god no, she didn’t even know that word existed anymore. Nothing but a pillow with no life to it anymore, it was like sleeping on the cement floor wouldn’t have made any difference and a couch with holes she hoped roaches wouldn’t crawl out of. But the remembrance it was used on the daily, the sweat smell a clear indication of that (god only knew what it looked like in the light) had her thinking she probably shouldn’t have plunged down hard like she did. In case of needles or something....Hep or worse was all she needed, she thought. 

       But it was something. Beat a shelter. Beat the streets. There you didn’t know your intruders. Had to sleep with one eye open even if every morsel of your being was trying to shut down. Nights there, and luckily, shamefully...times she’s never cough to, those times were limited. She’d found at least a stable-ish routine. Here in LA. At the least the vampires that were feening for a lick, a taste, a bite were manageable. At least she knew them. At least she wasn’t surrounded by tragedy. The kind that loosened hardened skin and made you foolish. Here there was an ounce of control. Hell, most anyone was socked out of their mind all it took was one good shove and they were conked, seeing stars.

      Another night, sometimes it felt like the last. The last until there would be that break. Something....it was rare for feelings like these. A hope. Nah hope was for pussies. It was adrenaline, an exhausted last kick before she’d dream a vat of nothingness into the early morning, to be woken by sunrise in it’s brightest forms. She’d think and think real hard at where that energy went. What she was supposed to do today to make whatever it was she was so anxiously ready for not five hours before a possibility. 

      Then there was the sweat stained couch with the holes. She slept here. Again......was it supposed to be green?

[holywitchkid]

Super Duper - Galileo

[holywitchkid]

         So much blood. The correct way to cut. Not slow like it’s glorified but fast, how it would be. Vertical. There’s no going back. If someone actually goes through with it it’s deliberate. It’s meant to be. There’s an emotional soundtrack on screen. Something from the 80′s that would probably be in a rom-com and over played. Remakes have the audience questioning what it reminds them of. This scene being a key—though nothing to hold a candle to the Molly Ringwalds of the era.—one to forget out of pure avoidance. A dripping faucet to an arial shot of someone soaked in their despair. It’s the most accurate depiction I can imagine. 

         This is how i’d do it. 

         Except. It creeps into my mind that someone would have to find me. I don’t think I’d want that. Splayed out. Naked. My flaws on display. Such a stupid reason to not do it. But the idea of someone finding me and remembering the way my fat folded together with the curve of my hip and my leg pulled up just right revealing marks, Is mortifying—even in death, I’d feel inferior and that it’d matter. When it doesn’t. In the slightest. I will be nothing but a forgotten cremation,  fertilizing the earth.   

         I passed out once—did I ever tell you? Because of the blood. Turns out I can break bones, but show me the cut and I am meant for the grave. Which takes me back to my potential poetic out.... I don’t think I would make it through the first slice....slice......such a painful word. I wish there was something more painless but that’s what it is.  

         I’m probably not ready for this.  I know i’m not ready for this. This is a moment, and a song. This is my nerve’s reaching a point of ecstatic liberation. This is me being edgy, this is me taking the bulls by the horns and becoming someone that can do. I am that poster from the 50′s with the rolled up sleeves. I am someone to fear. To start revolutions.....to dissect.... to write depressive novels on that will be shared with generations after......i’m someone to.....to.......pity......i’m a poem. A reminder. I’m a reminder of where not to go. Who not to be....... You don’t want this. No one wants this. 

         I thought it’d be poetic. Rocks in the coat pockets. That it fit. That it was inevitable. But it’s not. Not yet. (A deep sigh takes place here) The minimal blood i’ve drawn makes for a color I couldn’t quite mix up with the paint but does make for a starting point. I don’t know what I was thinking. My whole world has shifted. It does that daily. Within moments. For now, ten minutes later I’ll make something with a little blood and mostly paint.