TV SKY

By

Acosta and Gao

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Deadra Acosta

April 0 20XX

Expletive Deleted

SAG SLAG

The size of this pain is more than I know. And it has been that way for longer than I have held. This weight is the consequence. I think, I feel like the death itself, I don’t die ever. What discovery I made was the solidity of myself, my inability to crack, my foundation stands. I feel tired, but not for fatigue.

It was naive but that doesn’t mean it was wrong. It was fitting for my age, everything was—is. I don’t miss you, I really don’t. In my life, maybe it’s that I never really felt like holding on to much, at least past a certain point. That point is far away, and I think the struggles of then are crawling, and making my life ahead.

The ugly talks are the ones I will have a great skill for. I will be ornate, a flower of death that carries within, kills instantly. Maybe because I have mold in my complexion, the gray cask of my eyes, their rock hardness, and there might be pain, though, also. I hoard every moment and feeling I can get now, just to embalm and frame what I think I am and keep it.

Experience for the sake of it, I hold time till it’s over. I sharpen my flesh after I finish grinding it down, taking the shavings of my bloated remains to the bathroom. The mirror is like a liar I once beat half to shit in the eighth grade, got expelled after I kicked her kidneys to red Crayola piss. I shape my face around the plates of makeup I serve like gavage down my throat, like the things we used to eat together and taste in each other’s mouths.

One time, I could taste your spit all the time.

That was not a long time ago. I can’t say.

I also have the right to say anything, so that could be a flat lie.

But I will say, sayonara, motherfucker.