Author: kirstiedurham

20 years my senior but young at heart and in body until you said “give me a minute”

i realized then i didn’t want to be there but i longed for any contact and feared any lack thereof so i gave the minute you asked for 

i asked for water and you returned with a diet soda bottle relabeled, filled with water and flimsy as if it had seen the hands of several, the warmth of flesh leaving it pliable like a familiar, flaccid penis

i thought “this is fine” up until the moment you commanded a robot to “play the Beatles” and then “play Led Zeppelin” as if i’m so young i could have never possibly heard of them 

the words made my stomach turn and i thought about how the technological daylight made you more withered than the night before and i began to see the experience on your face deepen and the withered lines turn into pits of gross realization and as the gap in my stomach grew i thought to myself 

“the Beatles fucking suck” 

a muse?

amusing

like the zng zng zng zng sound that synthetic lovers make as they drip with the byzantine spoils of conquered thresholds

and i hear it, see it

but sounds and sights do not call me to battle like does the touch to my warmth and i have never fought for country or state like i have for myself

 

but of fucking course I am sad because I don’t deserve anything true so I hang onto false affection and love that leaves hours after the touch of a finger to a screen

my brain is made of plastic- 

non porous and non conforming yet time and again melted like a surrealist painting, oozing through and out and every which way just to be dried again by under stimulation

a post lysergic reaction like air to resin

hardening uninhibited to preserve what notions might have been left behind in a snail’s trail

a brain, or just weird flesh yearning for a chemistry book and a lesson in shape shifting?

“you used to be hot”

you said to me in the car as we were leaving the space where we had just merged lives, possessions, energies

your words hit my brain like a hot knife, a lobotomy on my self respect

replace confidence with submission, replace love with Stepford obedience 

i precariously stacked my feelings away in defense. “he’s just stressed” followed by “he’s tired” followed by “he’s right” 

losing my autonomy to eggshells that I crept on as I headed for Switzerland replaying in my head the words

“you used to be hot” 

I created this to hold myself accountable for creating, finishing, and sharing words, art, and ideas. I’ve struggled with depression like many and it’s been difficult for me to find purpose and motivation for my creativity. I’m hoping this will be a tool to nurture my process and help me heal.