I want to tell you a story of a girl who knew nothing was real. And since that girl is me I know it is all true, that every grain of reality dropped one by one like sand into the wind. Rushed away as quickly as it was found, and I decided that truth and lies may as well be feathers on the same bird. Nothing is real and the bird flies crookedly into the dark. Always the dark, an endless abyss. I wonder if avoidance was born in that black, black place.
My doctor says I am depressed, that is fine. I think more about what it would feel like if he kissed my neck than the medical advice he fumbles out. He compliments my hair, asking if I changed the color if it was always wavy. He wants to see my tattoos. He’s nervous. I tell myself it’s inappropriate to think about fucking the white off his coat, really I just want to hear his heart pound through his stethoscope. I keep these thoughts to myself, I just tell him:
“I don’t sleep anymore, I don’t write.” I tell him, “Fuck I don’t even feel anything.”
I had long ago convinced myself that I’m not truly alive. My diary pages are full of glitches, and mix-ups. I tell myself a celestial faux pas must have occurred. In between endless days that disappear into months and years I wager my entire reality will soon pop into black. Here and gone with no fanfare. Dissipation, I tell myself, will be the only thing that doesn’t disappoint me.
And my friend’s boyfriend wants to sleep with me. I let him tell me, hundreds of messages and I don’t see the harm. I watch the videos he sends me. He’s excited, he wants something, a taste of me. I am dark magic, witty conversation, and someone who could never hurt him. He confuses this with wanting to cum in me. I let his mouth water on the thought of what I would feel like under him. Honestly, I am a dream. I am a dream. I am not here, or real, or tangible. So, tell me you want me. I want the moon, the stars, sweat, and dirt, and hot, hot heat. I settle for a pill every four hours with food.
I hold the conviction that my existence is just a dream. Loops and loops of sleep and time like fabric rolled out to make a dress, I think of myself as a face lost to a blur of being merely a background figure. Someone made up to give flesh to sleeping pictures. The idea of insignificance makes sense to me. I am in love with a bounty hunter from Montana who calls me at one or two in the morning, I cocoon myself in his voice. We are all depressed and cozy. Writhing on top of each other. I tell myself if someone would just open their eyes I could finally disappear.
When I sleep I see a room that is blinding white like sunlight against the snow. There is nothing there except me and a small bowl of perfectly piled blueberries. I tell myself that in this space I can finally breathe, and air fills my lungs until I feel like bursting.
There is no awake or asleep. No good or bad. Right or wrong. There is only where the light goes, and darkness surrenders.
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