Toxix
What makes blood shine in the sunlight?
I write of the poisons first in my life, then in my poetry, last in my computer. I wrote about ingrown hairs and diamonds before. I got paid for that. Everything that pays is false. Poison is the only truth.
I developed magpie behaviors at some point in my life, maybe back when I used to pace around the pool for hours on end. I always liked walking. It’s a healthful activity. It’s medicine. Too much of it is poison, and that’s how I cooked my brain.
I’ll steal a metaphor from here, a stylish phrasing from there. Add it all up and it’s some stroke of genius. It takes a genius to go to war and a fool to make peace. A rambling weird piece of nonsense is just what the doctor ordered. She ordered it from room service and took a nap, only waking when the knocking outside her door grew desperate.
A doctor knows something about poisons. Place the pellet under the tongue and let it dissolve. I try to assemble thoughts and everything falls apart. They race off in a million different directions. I’m too busy reading to wrangle them back together.
The doctor examined the deep cuts on my fingers and chuckled. How did you do this to yourself? You’re not supposed to do this to yourself. The next thing I know we’re talking about a more embarrassing subject. The president. Pause for applause. Please clap.
I had fair warning. Panix attax early on. Within a month of falling in love, or less, I watched her writhing helplessly. I’d never seen a person so broken by existence. I know she’s funny dude, but Jesus. Don’t hurt yourself. More importantly, don’t hurt her. (Who? The doctor? My mother? The apothecary? The ne’er-do-well uncle? That’s me in the future. That’s my father in the past. Well, boy!)
This is an essay about poison. A memoir of poisoning - being poisoned and poisoning others. You know that because I’m telling you. I’m very clever. I’m not shrill. I’m a shard of glass.
There was a man I once knew who I was introduced to by a student of Chinese religion. This student was fucking my sister at the time. The man was called That Guy That Gets All the Bad Poison Away. I’ve never forgot him. He will always be with me. He gets the bad poison away, the poison that always seems to get you in the end. Without warning, you’re dead. Out of nowhere comes the Bad Posion. That’s why it’s useful to know That Guy Who Gets All the Bad Poison Away.
I crawl up inside the imaginative fancies of those around me. I live in them and they become my reality. And then they begin to shrink until I burst forth and collect the remains for later filing. It is a magpie tendency. I picked up That Guy Who Gets All the Bad Poison Away and never set him back down. Just like Aimsol, a nonsense word a friend once texted me and has become a entire domain in my imagination. I want to give life to ideas discarded by others. It’s a wicked, quixotic compulsion. They’re barely even ideas. What are they?
Sometimes the person you want so badly is the same person that you never want to see again. How can you be so damn logical?
Distractible, irascible, and lost. I can’t hold the same idea in my head for more than few seconds. I’m even losing object permanence. Go check and see if you locked the door. Go ahead and check. Don’t let bad poison get into your house or car or any other closet bag of bags, lock it up and double check that you did.
But the Guy, how does he know it’s bad poison? There are good poisons, after all. Good poisons make blood shine under sunlight.
I only sleep normally when I’m in a relationship.
I resolved to be stoic to gain the approval of my parents.
I am a red-eyed idiot.
I write of the poisons first in my life, then in my poetry, last in my computer. I wrote about ingrown hairs and diamonds before. I got paid for that. Everything that pays is false. Poison is the only truth.
I developed magpie behaviors at some point in my life, maybe back when I used to pace around the pool for hours on end. I always liked walking. It’s a healthful activity. It’s medicine. Too much of it is poison, and that’s how I cooked my brain.
I’ll steal a metaphor from here, a stylish phrasing from there. Add it all up and it’s some stroke of genius. It takes a genius to go to war and a fool to make peace. A rambling weird piece of nonsense is just what the doctor ordered. She ordered it from room service and took a nap, only waking when the knocking outside her door grew desperate.
A doctor knows something about poisons. Place the pellet under the tongue and let it dissolve. I try to assemble thoughts and everything falls apart. They race off in a million different directions. I’m too busy reading to wrangle them back together.
The doctor examined the deep cuts on my fingers and chuckled. How did you do this to yourself? You’re not supposed to do this to yourself. The next thing I know we’re talking about a more embarrassing subject. The president. Pause for applause. Please clap.
I had fair warning. Panix attax early on. Within a month of falling in love, or less, I watched her writhing helplessly. I’d never seen a person so broken by existence. I know she’s funny dude, but Jesus. Don’t hurt yourself. More importantly, don’t hurt her. (Who? The doctor? My mother? The apothecary? The ne’er-do-well uncle? That’s me in the future. That’s my father in the past. Well, boy!)
This is an essay about poison. A memoir of poisoning - being poisoned and poisoning others. You know that because I’m telling you. I’m very clever. I’m not shrill. I’m a shard of glass.
There was a man I once knew who I was introduced to by a student of Chinese religion. This student was fucking my sister at the time. The man was called That Guy That Gets All the Bad Poison Away. I’ve never forgot him. He will always be with me. He gets the bad poison away, the poison that always seems to get you in the end. Without warning, you’re dead. Out of nowhere comes the Bad Posion. That’s why it’s useful to know That Guy Who Gets All the Bad Poison Away.
I crawl up inside the imaginative fancies of those around me. I live in them and they become my reality. And then they begin to shrink until I burst forth and collect the remains for later filing. It is a magpie tendency. I picked up That Guy Who Gets All the Bad Poison Away and never set him back down. Just like Aimsol, a nonsense word a friend once texted me and has become a entire domain in my imagination. I want to give life to ideas discarded by others. It’s a wicked, quixotic compulsion. They’re barely even ideas. What are they?
Sometimes the person you want so badly is the same person that you never want to see again. How can you be so damn logical?
Distractible, irascible, and lost. I can’t hold the same idea in my head for more than few seconds. I’m even losing object permanence. Go check and see if you locked the door. Go ahead and check. Don’t let bad poison get into your house or car or any other closet bag of bags, lock it up and double check that you did.
But the Guy, how does he know it’s bad poison? There are good poisons, after all. Good poisons make blood shine under sunlight.
I only sleep normally when I’m in a relationship.
I resolved to be stoic to gain the approval of my parents.
I am a red-eyed idiot.
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