I am pretending the rot in me is temporary. That I can spoon it out with food or stranger’s bodies or driving too quickly. That if I just treat the symptoms I will wake up okay. You can cut me open and I’d probably thank you for it. I’m just fine if you don’t look directly. The sun is a closed fist. But what can I say. Nothing bad has ever happened to me. I’m just bad at being whole. I’m good at ugly.
What’s the point of a relationship if you can’t find a man who will pay for your funeral, keep a hologram of you whilst you’re dead, resurrect you against the advice of his colleagues and then when you’re about to lose your house to the bank he buys the whole damn bank