I ♥ MY SMOKING GUN

i called my accountant today and he said im gonna make it. i live to see another financial year.  he said im a big smart girl and that he’s proud of me. he said im actually ahead of my payments. he said i will never face any consequences for the life of hedonism that i am building and that the moralistic shame is unlike me. he didn’t say that part. with every evaded crisis i know my time is crawling nearer. do you feel the dread? i feel as though i have run out of fingers to count upon. i feel hot under my skin and strung out. i feel like the last person standing. i feel like a claustrophobe being stuffed into an escape pod. i feel just okay. i love my smoking gun. i love my smoking gun. i can only love what i know and i can only know what i love and so i love my smoking gun and i love the cataclysm and i reach out to trace the contours of the heat-death with melting acrylic fingertips. i love what finds me out and i love what gives me away, the gaping hole the gnashing teeth i love my smoking gun.

i have had no capacity for narrative. i am buzzing. i do nothing. i am busy. i run on distilled emotion and i do it the best. i have not been sleeping. my hypnagogia is getting worse. i jolt awake thinking that i fell asleep by accident and apologise out loud to the empty apartment because i’m pretty sure someone is there with me. i never feel scared, or even curious, i just feel bad. i am standing at the nexus paralysed. i tell my friends that i have been suicidal and they are just as surprised as i am, for i am often vulgar but never morbid. i have been both. hit me hit me tell me you love me crawl under my skin where its warm and puppeteer me. so corny. these are thoughts you have had too but i just word them worse. there is no harm in picturing the impossible comfort - and if you happen to find that you have nothing to do with your hands, just start inching them towards your waistband.

i never catastrophise when bad things happen, only the good. when things are going my way i feel this horrible gut-wrenching guilt; i ache to be made to subsist only on plain foods and to don scratchy fabrics. be made clean, repent, i don’t know. how do we reconcile with happenstance? my god, with luck? for everything to change yet nothing to matter. how do we grieve the stench of a death that has long dissipated? i wasn’t taught how to deal with good things and i don’t know how to choose to change. please inflict me. i feel like one of those ‘therapists who go to therapy’ in the betterhelp midroll ads. the glow of bluelight LEDs penetrates through my temples and it feels like a lobotomy at half mast. all smoke no bullet. same as it ever was,