Make art while the darkness reigns.
We’re so far apart. Me, right there and you, right here. Like a dead mother, you never existed. And…everything doesn’t have to be so heavy, because as soon as you return we’ll smile. At our wicked ways, we’ll cry tears of laughter. That is if you return otherwise the illusion will live on. That is if I return otherwise the illusion will die. Nothing so far has changed you, not fire, not water, not pain. Twin statues we stand apart staring into the unknown of each other’s eyes. We are not dead. We are not alive. We are muntu.
The word muntu makes “no special difference between living people, dead people, children not yet born, and gods” (The Poisonwood Bible).
If you don’t come back soon I’m going to kill our dream. Before you’ve even fully envisioned it I’m going to cut it out black from that colouring book we loved. Why won’t you comply? Why won’t you be complicit in my illusion? Completely. I allude to you, only you, all the time. It’s harrowing. We’re the opposite of a rainbow. I don’t even know who you are whilst knowing everything in your little little mind. That’s what I…i…i…
You are a waste of the sunshine.
When I think about you I count every breath
And I wish that I could get them back.
I don’t like you. In fact I wish I’d never met you.
I imagine it sometimes and I climax, tearfully.
I regret not hurting you, more.
I think that you are horrible like the hideous monster under the bed.
I wish your heart was as big as mine so you could understand how much hate can be squashed inside it.
You are a pot belly pig. I kick you and I roast you.
I share you with all my friends and they love you.
You are delicious, dead.
I wish you became a puzzle and I jumbled up all the pieces so I didn’t know what you look like.
I wish I was so stupid I couldn’t solve the puzzle.
I don’t even like writing about you.
I’m going to tear you out and scrunch you into a ball and play basketball with your head. Dickhead.
Happy but Hurting.