freewrite #3

"Fuck."
That is it. Everything else they tell you, about the final thoughts a person has before their brain splatters, before their hearts give in and their inner-most bowels escape their physical being, comes down to four letters. Those memories of the first time you held your eldest child, or the way your father pulled your ear as he kissed your cheeks before school in the morning...
Gone.
Fuck. You really wanted to believe that they, those nuances of your mother, sisters, best friends- would be yours. Forever. Unfortunately, when you choked on that cherry pit, watching Pretty in Pink, alone- again, you had to learn that finite nature of "forever." Much shorter than you presumed.
Remember being a door monitor in 6th grade so that you could escape the trenches of Ms. Somer's English class a bit earlier than the other students? Standing the hall just before the bell and watching your peers flood into the corridor... Knowing that their backpacks had found lumbar lodgings long before the bell had sounded?
Remember it now, because you won't then.
There was a night after a field trip to Philadelphia, when you stared at the phone for hours before finally calling. At 12 you may not have understood the duties of the term, but you really wanted one. When he said that he would be your boyfriend you shreaked. When you kissed, you realized the difference between 5'5" and his 5'1", you fled. Not knowing that it would be years before it happened again- four, to be exact.
But that one has vanished now, too.

All you know now is this... fuck

these words have nothing to do with each other. or me.

Can't tell the difference between what I want
What I get and what I can have.


Shattered like glass, falling off that pedestal
Shouldn't have gotten so high in the first place
And I shouldn't have let you slip.
Broken dolls where is your mother-facturer?
Who made you out of shit?

Effervescent. Charming.
I'm so sorry you had to see me this way
I know you and what you're thinking
And I am a lot prettier with the plague.
I'll never have those consistently rose red
Inflamed lips. Allow me to fill your vacant eyes
there's a new vision out on the rise.


death is on a tangent
am i the only one listening?
speaking in tongues
and i can see her inside yours.
i'll peel those lids off like foreskin
you'll see me before it's too late


"don't smile
in the dark, it's the only way they'll see you"
that's what she told me and i didn't forget it.
but it was only me and a mirror in there
i think that's how i lost your necklace
and tumbled down the flight of spiraling steps.

27 seemed like a good amount at the time.

Now. Where was I?
The other night I died in my dream. I witnessed someone get shot with this futuristic dart gun. When assailant realized what I'd witnessed he suddenly appeared before me, and promptly shot me in the neck with a heavy dosage of morphine. I looked back at my mother, reached for her, gasped deeply and woke up instantly, lungs full of the same air.

This morning when someone in my dream described the shooting they'd witnessed in front of their building, I saw the ocean of blood they mentioned and the crashing crimson waves. It was really disturbing. There were children playing at the crime scene and birds sipping up the fluids. At the end of the dream, I was on the floor with my mother, crying and telling her that I loved her more than anything in the world. I woke up with wet cheeks.

They say the subconscious doesn't lie, and I believe that much. But why don't I ever know what the fuck it's saying to me?

What is going on?