This won’t hurt a bit. I don’t want anything from you that would be of value to anyone else.
I have slithered out of my world of frequent-flyer miles and hostile takeovers to inhabit the rayon space between reality and America. Between my boxcar and my cubicle.
In this cube of existence where everything is angles and protuberances, I want only that which is soft, malleable, easily manipulated.
I hope you weren’t expecting anything from me but to be that thing which breaks the red, silences the scream but for a moment.
Please don’t feel any desire to change me.
It won’t be reciprocated.
What I have lost is nothing I have not given over.
My life, like yours, was not taken from me but auctioned off.
Craigslist, E-bay, these are the chalices of meaning in this sphere of frost.
We have sought to find our worth in the bright light of commerce and instead have become that which is sold, hung on the hook of morality displayed with all the contempt it deserves and the worship it requires.
Show me that you don’t care, please.
When I wake, I will shatter the glass with a bellow upon seeing you there.
We will then mount our horse together and escape ourselves before we’ve had the chance to ignore one another.
I don’t know you, intimately