I like to live on the edge. Wake me up at 5pm and tell me to go clubbing. I’ll paint my face with ethereal gold and dark plum and take a fair-haired stranger home.
I like to experience new perspectives. Hand me a cigarette and I’ll take cannabis. I’ll smoke until I think I’m Whitney Houston on my way to Mars.
Today. Today I look myself in the eye while knotting my tie and tell myself, I will be good today. Today I write until my tongue bleeds out and paint graphic depictions of deaths and study the varying speeds of different poisons take to kill you – then I straighten my tie, go downstairs and make small talk with a charming smile as I burn myself out inside.
I’m fascinated. The things I’m fascinated about, I grasp them by the neck and I suck their souls out of their clavicles and wreck myself over them until it’s the end of the day. Then I crawl back into bed and relax and pretend that this is what I’m ever like, always.
You tell me I’m obsessive. I tell you I’m just unstable. You tell me I’m dangerous. I agree. Though it was never the actions that counted; it was never the way I acted. I may or may not have done those things. My thoughts are dangerous – therefore I am.