You know that feeling?
That, who am I and what in the name of all the chosen prophets am I doing here, kind of feeling?
That feeling that it’s not your hand you can see at the end of this limb that’s somehow attached to whatever, you, are…
Maybe it’s the light. This harsh, artificial light is enough to make anyone want to slit their wrists just to see if what’s inside is red.
Just to see if, you, can feel it.
I sometimes think my hands could do incredible, over powering things.
Stroke the soft part in between a person’s thighs.
Hold a gun against my head and see who laughs at that.
Look. Under the light I can almost see my veins.
Sometimes I look into my eyes in the mirror and it takes a full five seconds to realise the pupils, these dark holes in that dark, savage face, are my own.
You do know that feeling, right?
Alice through the looking glass.
Except Alice wasn’t lit by strip lights in a sterile bathroom.
Alice was the creation of a pervert.
Fantastic wonderland that is.
Now the vein on my neck is visible. Popping? Is that how people say it?
The vein on my neck is popping.
Like Marilyn, Lolita, Alice bubblegum.
Like a kiddie’s balloon.
Like a cherry.