I'm a closet writer. Not I am a closet writer, shit wind to four walls of validation. Buried in my head, a dark fine space, sitting fear and a thin paper line at the bottom of an endless door, nothing extraordinarily poetic, nothing extraordinarily anything. Just shadows ticking and a cave of dishonesty, costumes and a jagging hot mess. Hissing zippers and rip off beauty with delete buttons flying apart at the seams. Plain truth, I can't sew worth shit but I can destruct quite well, melancholy claustrophobia and my fingers searching for something like a sober pen and a thin white light.
Let's be honest and stop trying so hard to please the Pretentious Reader sipping dirty martinis in her uber-trim black turtleneck and Chanel box glasses, pursed lips smacking: "Try harder bitch, you make no sense."
Whatever, Pretentious Reader, you're a bitch too.
I'm afraid of writing, because, if I write, I am a writer. Not I'm a writer. Blow flagrant apostrophes and walls of water to hide behind. I'm satisfactorily comfortable being dissatisfied being nothing too much of anything at all.
"Oooh!" she wails, "sounds spidery!" as she squints smaller, rolls her shoulder and taps twice for a double.
At least I suspect. She's loud as a wine drunk and exotically descriptive, the outer edge of sound shadows on the right side of my only door.
Fine for now. It's the most honest dishonesty I can muster, save whatever comes next.
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