You always find yourself in the backseat of somebody’s van tracing the geography of the stained upholstery with your bare, painted toes. You plot trips to foreign kingdoms: Singapore, Mozambique, Melmac.
At stiff parties you don antiqued yellow lampshades. Dancing with wire coat hangers, you declare that the latest preadolescent-high fashion from Tokyo is a chain of dandelions that spring from stiletto heels.
You’ll take every drug that is offered: grass, glass, microscopic sand from a beach in the British Virgin Islands, minx hair stuffed into a paper joint.
Later, the police pull you out of the sculpted arboretum topiaries. For weeks after, you find fine curled hairs in your toothbrush.
You did not speak until you were 9.6 years old. They took you to all the most sanitary neurosurgeons and you feigned determination at opening and closing the same portal over and over again.
“It winked at me,” you tell them, forming a magic eye with the knot of your fingers. Your mother’s knuckles undulate. Your father demands that you stop touching yourself.
You drop out of college for the seventh time to become a stern photo-journalist. Your camera grows jammed from fingernail clippings and you can’t be bothered to filter your humors from the developer.
While you wait for your hair to grow you are convinced that the disciple Paul is trading real estate in Swaziland on three a.m. infomercials. Your knees bleed against asphalt at the sight of a plastic fish plastered to the bumper of a Volkswagen rabbit. You swear to become halibut and shave your head.
One day a fuck-buddy unfurls his proboscis in a shit-stained motel bed and you see your mosquito wings twitch against the sweaty slope of his vertebrae. In the morning, you are a blue daffodil spun inside a music box.
You tattoo yourself with all your greatest omissions.
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