Pretentious Pornography

Curving over the edge of my bed, stricken with nausea. I remember the slope of the street. The city's sharp hills and barometric pressure creating congestion in my nose. It wasn't in the nicest area of town, why would I expect it to be anywhere else. Writhing from remembering, I reeled over onto the floor as he led me to a series of offices, abandoned by the failed dot coms. I sat in a puffy orange chair and tried to pretend I wasn't there. No confidence and certainly no self esteem, I always wanted to believe, but now I am asking and I receive, for a small price.

Naked and alone and the couch. This is a cold place in the city. You cannot wash this off of your hands, I can see this in his smile. The lack of his patience for me to become a fake and empty unit, a vessel to be filled with cliche lines and to pretend this is nothing more than smut would be a lie to the both of us. It will haunt me for the rest of my life, steering me towards the wrong direction. The actor, the humanitarian, and the scholar all fall into the paper shredder. Amateur Amateur Amateur, during my Amateur times of doing Amateur work. An expert of nothing, a lover of no one, a heart pumping with no blood but a forced ejaculation.

My mattress begins to curl around me, pressing against my ribs. I try to yell for help, but I lack the vocal chords. I reach for my medicine, but I remember that I quit so long ago. So many faces spin around as if the house is caught in a tornado of portraits. As they spin, the mariachi band begins to play. Several ingredients are called for in the end of this.

Running with stealth, trying to hold the contents of my stomach inside me, a yellow plastic container is right where I left it. Shivering and shaking, I purge on the container and all over the floor. I feel the steady cam looking nowhere near my face, one thousand instruments playing my favorite song. Stumbling up the stairs and trying to see what I do not want to see. The gaunt cheek bones, the pastry white skin, and the shivering mess that is someone when they no longer even trust themselves. Reaching out the last of the gumption in my being to fight the greatest enemy any of us has ever known.

I salute to the queen, and bless the sages of whom have been very helpful these past few months. They provide a illusory curtsey and join the wallpaper again. The empty bedroom of my family groans in the cobwebs and the wind that New England tends to have around the months. As spring ushers out the new plants, I grab a couple in my hands from outside the window, hoping tendrils will fly out of my wrist and joining the earth I will bear fruit and do at least one of the goals I had when I was here.

Dearly departed, we are gathered here to say goodbye, says the worn out stuffed Monkey. The polar bear without a nose lowers his face to let me know he will miss me. A vine wraps around my ankle from the window in my bedroom, and tries to pull me outside. Fool's games. Childish games for those younger than children. Simply a shoestring, tied by myself to my own ankle. Tired of being the living liar, lying back down on the bed.

Empyting the canister, feeling wet and dry of skin. I close my eyes and it begins to spin again. Oh the things we do for friendship, the things we do for money. Dearly departed, what was wrong with you? You give up on everything, what happened to the spark? Surely you need one now, and you are reluctant to look for it. I see my face, dark circles around my eyes and a tear to fall down. I roll onto my stomach.

The wood from the floor ruptures massive arms grab me and as I fly towards the concrete, I wonder, suppose that shoestring could have pulled me out of the window, then what?