harmonies split.
A reverberation is not an echo and all I can hear is everything I’ve just heard. Ivory keys dance along this pause. It’s all too fucking loud. I’m dizzy and walking into old women with bags filled with incontinence pads, half price, already half soiled. I’m a dinosaur walking backwards, forwards, frontwards, sidewards, it’s a case of knowing where you’ve come from and trying to make it more fun.
I wish I’d tried MDMA when I had the chance. I get the feeling it would have felt good in my blood, in my eyes, in my gums, up my sleeve, behind my knees next to the hole I made with the blunt side of a pencil sharpener blade when I was thirteen.
Everything is familiar yet different as it is in a different key, you see? Still filler is better than no evidence for late nights and a passionless productivity. I am a dinosaur in search of everything and nothing to put into my paper cup and drink this evening. I’m thirsty and have been walking for miles in this heat. My ear cartilage feels too much.
Nausea.
You should have let me kiss that sky that summer, I was young and could have done with the trip. Instead I sat, skinless in saline. I dropped the pink pill this time around. When everything melted I appeared to feel less and less. I used my fingers for a sieve and filtered through the waste in your bin, through orchid stems, watch batteries, through stale valerian tea bags that reeked of foot sweat and unwashed duvet.
Out of tune, untamed Mandolins run riot all over the table cloth; it’s difficult to concentrate at dinner for their strings break with every heavy hand. Phlegm lies fresh with a bubble bursting in the wind, it takes up more and more space, like spilt milk on marble. A bruise develops in the corner of my left eye.
Nausea.
A thousand stereos are skipping in my head. They bleat like lambs drunk with unrequited love. The thud of consistence soaks every vacancy up into the sponge of sound, smudging into one blue line of chalk, fingering along the foreseeable view ahead. Bells ring in between words, slowly in a toll, rolling into a larger snowball of sound. A pulp of purple filters my sight as blue ink spots bleed into butterflies inside the sunspots of my left eye.
Nausea.
I catch it and watch its wings disintegrate at my fingertips touch. Every colour patterned in symmetry shatters into a dust that leaves grit in my palm. I snort everything in my hand. I can no longer understand whether this is now or then or about to happen or happened too long ago that I’m dreaming it up in a vomit of nostalgia my stomach has rejected. The friendly bacteria have no time for reminiscing and my fourteen day trial is nearly up. A money back guarantee is always a comfort when taking risks such as these.
Nausea.
It’s so (fucking) hard to take myself out of this. I tear the Queens face from a line of stamps and stick to a letter addressed, nameless, posted as far away from this as possible.
Signed with love,
the diary keeper, ‘my charliegirl.
