postsession on the kitchen floor
2003-01-29, 12:22 p.m.
Like raking autumn leaves over a freshly trenched grave... i cut tentatively at first... slow... methodic... the harsh reality of a serrated blade... tearing like the wake of a houseboat in relative calm... my mind is inattentive, time lost in the void of the kitchen drawers...
not deep enough.
not fast enough.
doesn't hurt enough.
doesn't bleed enough.
not good enough.
just. like. me.
Like a toddler with his first watercolor set... with my easel and paintbrush... i cut faster now. the cool fierceness of the razorblade. an indescribable emotion past numb known only to cutters. past anger. stabbing, thrusting, dragging... carving their names... producing my own tempera... leaving the blood to dry so i can admire my art, i think... but really so i won't have to see what they do to me...
i am past scarred.
past scared.
past feeling.
past apathetic...
stuck with my adolescent fetishes
with only my poor artist's rendering
of what i used to be.
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