Why Do I Do This?

My mind is clogged with abusive chemicals and memories. I am at another party, in the bathroom, darkly dazing at my makeup in the mirror. I look like a pink wolf with cartoon eyes. A bug moves across the white sink. I smash it dead with my fingers. It still fidgets; can something be moving and dead at the same time? I open the door, float like a child back into the party where dubstep plays at a deafening volume. Where is he? My eye sockets are two webcams surveying the room. An object comes into focus: the Roman nose on his face, the blue eyes, the cotton on his body, the flesh so closely knitted to those big bones… In a cab, to his place uptown: Who is this person touching me? We are cerements, cerements, cerements: Bashing bags of water and chemicals knocking into each other; he’s ripping me, digging into me, trying to find something inside of me that dosen’t exist. Pop. The sun is a big ball of gas burning empty energy; like an elevator it rises around the Earth and into this man’s apartment. I want to stay. I rise, walk out into the city morning meshing into the throngs of people: anonymous.

You should follow Thought Catalog on Twitter here.