Thumper Devotchka

Don’t you know who I think I am?

“I don’t think this wedding will go ahead and that’s sad,” I mumble through tears and smoke. She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t usually say anything, this is not shocking to me but it is hard to comprehend.

I say everything, not really for her or I but because I have always had this mouth on me and a historical need to fill silence, often with emotion and, as she kindly tells me before bed, drama.

“I don’t know what to believe?”

“Listen, neither do I,” I respond as I’ve responded for the past 5 years. My emotions are loud, intense and manic. We live together in semi harmony and to be reminded again that all of it is too much lonely, predictable and ultimately boring.

This whole life, if I am honest with myself, is deeply boring. Even with the theatrics I struggle to feel connected. Interested. Here.

I tell a friend, “I could pack my life into a suitcase and leave.”
I think I read that somewhere but I use the material as my own.

Often when I feel like nobody I paint the walls with somebody before me. Idols. Villains. It isn’t important as long as it fits the script.

Some lyrics remind me I have been used for my body a few times while in blackout. I try to swallow the psychological reminders. She notices. Asks me what’s wrong.

I am honest, mostly to my detriment. Honesty makes people uncomfortable. Crying even more so. I am honest, and I cry. She doesn’t like this.

People make very little sense to me.
Fragments of them touch my heart and then I fall out of love (if I’d ever been in it) and return to myself. My selves.

It’s all about me still when the cards are down.
I have an escape rope and an internal off switch, perfect for times like this.

No one else can keep up with the rings I run around myself. No one asked them to.

Everyone in my hallucinations plays the marching drums. We go to war all the time. I am not scared of overflowing. There is beauty in my intensity. There is wisdom in my ability to flit in and out of states, timezones, love affairs and sadness.

And there’s carnage. Blood. Guts. Dust.
I’d be alone if I knew how to but I am a child every second day and children… need looking after.

Morning is here. My eyes roll back. It’s happening again. Life. It sneaks up on me and I swallow it like a badly manufactured vitamin. It doesn’t taste nice but everyone tells me it’s good for me.

I feel even less invested in further altering who I am upon waking. I stare at her in bed and think, ‘I don’t like you anymore,’ a strange mantra considering it may not be real.

Spitefully, I make some noise getting my things together and leave without saying goodbye. If I’d have said “have a good day” it would have been dishonest, something I’ve learnt people do not like. I weaponise my authenticity as a way to disarm others when they feel upset with me.

“I am honest.” Now what?

“I don’t know what to invest in!” she half shrieks at me from under the covers. It makes me sick and angry and un-attracted to her. All side effects of the idea she may leave me before I leave her. ‘Get in quick’, I think.

Investment. I’m not meeting my end of the bargain. I am a pyramid scheme who got what I was asking for and never really returned from it. My body is still in the old apartment. Another house haunted. Another ghost formed out of circumstance.

I eat the flashbacks and the bathroom. I blame myself again and move on to the next thing.

Tonight, it is her disappointment and the fact that my battery won’t charge. Fuck! My battery won’t charge.

My priority is distraction, especially after this skull fuck of a conversation.

I piggyback myself home from a free course I was granted due to my Government Standard insanity. I talk my way out of a 10 grand debt and simultaneously force a toothbrush down my throat and pat myself on the back.

My love will destroy you.

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