I am not myself. I am a flawed mannequin of motions, emotionless. Or cocooned in numbness. A sticky web of muted failures providing a shield, not highly effective but comfortable enough that I do not attempt to escape.
I linger in the shadows of past haunts, seeking an umbilical connection to the living. I sit at a bar, soaking in the delicious voices, but refuse to make eye contact – a fear of adding to my body count. My soul prickles at the remembrance of temptation, a rash of heat chafing my guilt.
I seek denial in books, plots that trick me into believing I am still human, possibly even a sexual being. But the brash images of needy cunts and desperate blow jobs leave my body dry — as in a desert, not a dry humping. I know what is missing. A bond to another, flesh bereft of affection and passion.
I stand before a desktop of blank canvases, varying sizes. Tears blur the sunset I want to pour in paint, encoding my desires to be deciphered by another. But my fingers freeze, my image fades, my spirit dissipates. I convince myself that it is best not to waste my paint or hopes.
I pack my secrets into cheap luggage that could easily be lost in the landfill. Plaster on my fake smile and place well-worn memories onto the Christmas tree.