As a teenager, I was porous – but it wasn’t oil bleeding out of my skin, it was words. Words, they stumbled out, choked out of me — clandestine-clever-climax-clockwork — forced, torn out of my own throat into the air, and I was left gulping, eyes bulbous like a desperate fish. I breathed, and they burned — pompous-pugnacious-perspicacious-petrified — every day, it left me panting and singed, desperate for air, non-combustible air. My mouth, it would pinch and pucker, filled to the brim with words, words, words – fill me up, oh, fill me up inside – and my fingers would itch and itch, craving to scratch out diligent-delectable-darkling-deranged on the closest surface. And they would tap, and tap, tap out syncopated rhythms that were words in disguise – they flowed out of me, I couldn’t stop them flowing –
(They filled me up, oh they filled me up inside – but I was always empty, too -)
So in a way I didn’t expect my death to be different. I was always going to go out with a pop, bang, diddly dang, because that was the kind of show-off that I was. I lay on the pavement, blood pouring out from every available surface – though it wasn’t really blood, was it, you know what it was — Adam-barnacle-cleavage-delirious-evasive-furuncle-garage-Hinduism-idiomatic-juvenile — and I bled, and bled, blood rushing out of my neck, temples, ears, toes, everywhere everywhere everywhere and then I bled no more.