Colton Face

I love you more than the Beatles Abbey Road album

I love you more than Pokemon

I love you more than making art 

I love you more than silver-age comic books

I love you more than independent films

I love you more than the colour green

I love you more than wet open fields during the spring

I love you more than finding an artist/writer/musician that I connect with

I love you more than fruit that hasn’t over ripened 

I love you more than my hands

I love you more than I love myself

I love you more than jazz and when it’s raining

I love you more than when the power goes out and everyone bonds

I love you more than the day after when the power is back

I love you more than reflecting on the innocence of adolescence 

I love you more than being able to help someone

I love you more than the primary colours

I love you more than the feeling I get thinking about you

I love you more than the feeling I get before I see you

I love you more than the pain I feel for you in equal measure.

It feels like I am dying.

It feels like I am starving.

It feels like I am addicted.

It feels like I am being tested. 

It feels wonderful and I wish it would never last.

It feels like I should pray before I close my eyes.

It feels like the thing inside me wants to be loved or have someone love it for all it’s disgust and imperfections and voluntary ugliness.

It feels like I have nothing to hide but secrecy remains in the thoughts of observers who will never know what is in me.

It feels like madness may be more than what could be defined.

It feels like lunacy is so culturally injected into every single stuck up and self righteous, judgmental, multi faced disgrace to whomever birthed you- teenaged adolescent fucked up BRAIN that I could just scream at the mass audience who blindly follows whatever they see without second thought.

It feels like the self inflicting pain to be noticed.. 

Noticed as someone who is normal…

Noticed that they are noticeable amongst other noticed people who are noticed for being normal..

Normal enough to not be noticed for anything noticing that would make them not normal… 

is redundant and depersonalizing. 

Maybe I am not the one to be depressed. 

Nights

Nights have become more and more depressing as I relive and analyze the details of people I could care less about. They haunt me with their obnoxious presence and unbearable existence. Every social interaction causing waves of universes that choke me with their meager and god awful cravings. It starts the fall and the flowers and leaves shiver and shrivel at the touch of that beautifully named bitch called Autumn.

She begins contaminating the trees with its churning colours that resemble all the fire we can make. I fancy the idea of the world outside my window lit aflame with a cleansing burn. But I know this is just my ever-growing loneliness speaking. 

It feels like I have been stabbed in the chest. 

It feels like my teeth have been pulled one by one then pure alcohol had been poured into my brain. It feels like I am drawn to the decisive issues one could not speak.

It feels like I am possessed to feel only that which can harm.

It feels like the world is racing and I am shoved into the midst of its all consuming rage and wide spread rumours of corruption and oblivion.

It feels like I am dying. 

It feels like I am starving.

It feels like I am addicted.

It feels like I am being tested. 

It feels wonderful and I wish it would never last.

It feels like I should pray before I close my eyes.

It feels like the thing inside me wants to be loved or have someone love it for all it’s disgust and imperfections and voluntary ugliness. 

It feels like I have nothing to hide but secrecy remains in the thoughts of observers who will never know what is in me. 

It feels like madness may be more than what could be defined.

It feels like lunacy is so culturally injected into every single stuck up and self righteous, judgmental, multi faced disgrace to whomever birthed you- teenaged adolescent fucked up BRAIN that I could just scream at the mass audience who blindly follows whatever they see without second thought.

The urge to flee came swift and gripped my body with panicked disarray. My entire frail husk felt like it had leapt into Arctic waters. Cropped images of last night’s ordeal replayed throughout my mind, creating a multiplex of cascading horrors and half hazed memories. I remember complete sobriety, and yet I stand petrified like a run-of-the-mill raving dope fiend. 

What is this?

I run through my mind and begin sorting and shuffling jagged memories like a team of secretaries trying to sort through years of worthless information in some chaotically unorganized office filing cabinet. I recognize the unrecognizable faces of dancers; frolicking like old timed pagans around story high open wild fires, celebrating the last sacrifice of the solstice. Blood trickles down rock and boil’s amongst ash.

 Bass beats screech adrenaline and lust and unbridled insanity. Madness is cherished. Sexual energy is priceless and sought. The euphoria is master and the logic has surrendered. The sea of bodies is already lost in a wave of slow moving limbs and fast beating hearts and still moving lashes.  Whether it was the case of a year long series of black outs and vivid self-analyzing lucid dreaming that has brought my face to the toilet every night. Purging the self-loathing and depredation down the drain. Within a crowd of  unrecognizable strangers, one cannot help but become introspective, I could feel that the electric drill to my temple was already inevitable. 

The tidal wave consumed me.

She knocks on my door. I inhaled the incentive aroma of alcohol and the cumulative stench of endless cigarettes lined one after another; igniting in an ethereal flame of cancerous ash in an all incasing night sky of sinister black fog, stealthily clouding the lurking faces of all that is unholy. Had some black hole created this woman to torture whatever purpose of life that currently entertains me? 

No, this isn’t what happened at all. We wandered together. Did we? Who was the murderer and who was the martyr? Who was the puppet, and what was the play we were dancing with arms and legs tied to strings?

Had she spoken at all since I opened the door? 

She lunges me and I fall backwards. I am suspended in musty air for several deci-seconds that I barely notice pass by. 

Later I find myself picking the feathers she had left behind from my pillow case. 

I find her loving more men as time continues. I have already felt all that could be wanted from her chipped broken bit nails. The ball of ink in my stomach expands and shrinks causing chases throughout my body. I tighten it with my clenched fingers and close my eyes.

I typed this out a few minutes ago on my girlfriends wall, unfortunately  (fortunate to her family) it exceeded the minimum character length. I figured I’ll put it here. 

Sometimes when I’m done with a victim, usually homeless man as of late, I like to look into the blood spilt against the wall. Often times it tells me more about this random then the way they scream for mercy. Sure the initial penetration of the knife and the way they squirm tells me more than enough. But I don’t know. Sometimes. Sometimes the way their bodily fluid drips along the crevice’ of bricks, the carnage just screams to me there past; their personality, perception of life and the way they once lived. It’s really the damnedest thing. 

For example. Last week I slit the throat of this Sicilian guy. He was middle aged, you know? Retreating hairline, some fine but noticeable discolouration in his beard whiskers. I’ve been following him the last few days, I thought I knew him well enough. But I tell you, when I did him, and the blood drops hit the neatly cleaned porcelain bathroom floor, it told me everything, it told me his name was Christopher. It told me his favorite colour was green, it told me he was allergic to cauliflower, and he hated Die Hard. But it told me so much more. It told me how his wife left him with their kid Michael 19 years ago. His son grew up happy and healthy, not too bright. Eventually he came to be in the army, later his division was touring Afghanistan, he never knew about this before they were wiped out in a car bombing. It was a real media frenzy. Christopher discovered about his 24 year old son’s death when he was desperately trying to pick up a whore in his least favorite bar. Christopher resented never weeping for his son, never stopping his pursuit for that whore he eventually did nail that night. Christopher blamed his wife every minute since then until he felt the relief of my blade. Behind that stain, was a smile. 

I guess I’m not such an awful guy after all.