Words keep the distance between us. These walls positioned with just enough hardware for whispers of misunderstanding, a terrific leap of multiple conclusions, you are who they say you are, godless mistress, sullen little boy, the great pretender.
It is a fact we insomniacs keep to ourselves in our little corner of the world, compact portals of preferential treatment steeped in the mysteries of regret and a yearning for what can never be. Seven hundred and seventy million lights locked up tight in front of their screens, slavish to other people’s agendas, quotas, the greed machine of bottom lines and branding, just getting by paycheck to paycheck, child support for that faithless whore who already married her meal ticket twice over, something’s always coming up, taking you away from me, closing down the theater of a captive audience.
Is that what I am? Or am I just another Narcissist, completely convincing in her make-up, the understudy who got so much better than she imagined.
Assume the role of the villain, it’s safer. These hand-me-downs only feel normal through the looking glass of a crisp, frequently worn straitjacket. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind when he is half-asleep and half-delirious with fever, I become a ghost in the machine, traveling open markets, browsing endless post-Christmas sales.