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shiny objects

Wednesday, October 12, 2005


I haven't been feeling like myself lately - not sick, but merely . . . sickened isn't the right word, but it's the first that comes to mind. I can't describe it properly. There exists no word for the way I feel.

It feels a bit like watching a stranger stroll into the Arc Lab with his ID card in his mouth, and place it, fresh from his moist lips, in the palm of my hand.

It feels like arson.

And sometimes it feels like walking through the filth-scented warmth that seeps up through sewer grates on a cold day.

I don't have a word for it.

It's the satisfaction I derive from picking at the ingrown hairs on my bikini line with a flame-sterilized needle.

Like licking a drop of blood from the back of my hand, and realizing, when I taste the iron, that I am unsure whether or not the blood was mine.

As if I had swallowed a coarse red hair.

Or left my favorite necklace on the refrigerator.

Or had broken a capillary that wasn't mine to break, or laughed out of spite.

Like sleeping, wrapped in a sheet, in an unmade bed. And sometimes it feels . . . sometimes it feels absolutely fantastic.


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