Wine Flavoured Cigarettes

They say South Park has two seasons, Winter and July. They say I have two moods, sad and nothing. Nobody says that, because nobody sees that. I don’t see that, I see nothing. I see something when nothing. I said I plucked the hairs out of my vagina and left little hairs all over the place to make myself look like they had fallen out, and to freak you out, but you didn’t care, you said it would be weird, to not be drunk. Because I am an inflatable doll, and we both know what getting drunk means. It doesn’t mean get drunk and have fun. It means get drunk and have sex. It means get drunk and have sex for you. It means get drunk and feel not alone for me.

I am loved, unavoidably loved, every day and all night. I feel the guilt of it. I am not loved happily. I am not happily loved. I am stalked by a shadow of love, I am followed and watched. I am the harbinger of your demise. I will not be the end of you, I will be the end of everyone. I am an aeroplane, I am an astronaut, I am an aardvark. I am things I cannot be, but I am not, I am not an artist. And I am not beautiful. And I am yours. You are the harbinger of my demise. You are my fish that cannot swim. You are my stale coke. You are my last cigarette. You are the cuts in my canvas because I have forgotten how to paint. You are the end of all that will be. You are eighty billion stars that soon will not exist, and I will never catch you, and I will live in a proverbial city, knowing you are there but never, ever seeing you. Ever.

You are my invisible patriarch. I am your call girl. I am your poor depreciating call girl. You are a poet and you spin language to be what you wish I was. Someone you could love. If only for a minute, or a second, to know, that you are real. If I were to experience tragedy the way I dream I could, I would know that I am not sad. I would know that I will only react to your mistrust, and not this growth that I wish was a tumour. That I wish was cancer. That I wish was death. That I wish was a reason. I need to know your reasons. If you love me, why am I still here. Why have you not let me go. My questions are disguised by my lack of grammar, and you will always know this. You will always ask me questions to quantify your existence, you will always pretend that you do not understand. But you will always hit the right switches, without training, without education, because you sir, you are the reason I am dying.

And I wish you had cancer, so you could pass it to me in the night, through the love that we do not make. Through the fucking. But alas, you cannot pass cancer, and I remain healthy, and I remain stoic, and I remain alive. Waiting for everyone to forget, waiting for my numbers to be lost, waiting for my smile to fade, so that I too can fade, so that I too can leave you. So that I too, can stop caring about how this will make you feel, when I am gone. Let me go, because otherwise I fear I may despise you one day.

Wine flavoured cigarettes will not make this better.