How much must I breathe to wake up with gunfire in my ears? How much of my body, life, soul must I pay for that? How much must it be for the gunfire to be coming from me? A single metal pellet, fuelled by nothing but hate, I’ll stand and force it out of my skin.
And watch it fly.
And watch it strike. Raise my other hand, a machine gun, no longer fingers but a cannon. I’ll step back, between two buildings, and raise and fire. And raise and fire again. Oh, good Lord, I’ll let go several thousand rounds in a matter of minutes. What am I shooting, what am I shooting at? Is it so much? Oh, I’ll tear through buildings, I’ll desecrate concrete with these metallic fists of mine.
More, longer, faster. Fuel, hatred and anger. I am no longer the silent fool you took me as. I am fury, I am the metal in the fire.
I can be the metal in the fire. How! Shoot, shoot, and keep myself scowling. No laughter, no joy. No psychopathic tendency to let a cheer fly from my throat. Concentrate. Calculate. And fire. I am angry, I am furious.
I want to wake with that gunfire, I want to hear it burn through the metal and stone, I want to know how far it flies through the other side, how long until it crashes to the ground. I want to stand on the edge of the world and scream it all, after I’ve destroyed everything in my wake, when there is no one around to accuse me of myself. Give it out! And let it destroy! Come on, darkness, come on. I’ll shoot you, too.
I’ll step off, I promise, I swear it, when I’m finished. A mercy killing followed by a self-sacrifice to end the world. My scream will be friction, my scream will be power. Friction and power, and bring him back to me! Why, why did you leave me! Why did you leave my head!
My frustrations are real, my block is too real. I can touch it, it’s inside me, a huge forbidden weight that strips me from Automatic to Catastrophic. I am Catastrophic. I am Catastrophic! I’ll fucking get him back, I’ll try anything. I’ll work everything. I’ll draw him until I know each inch of skin. I’ll draw him until I know the true colour of his greasy hair. I’ll draw him from the inside out to know how he works, maybe he’ll come back to me.
Oh, God, Yestin! Where the fuck did you go? Where the fuck did you run off to? I have no idea if you died, or if you lived, I have no idea what happened to you. I want you to return, for I am dangerous without you. I am furious. I need you to be my guardian. I need to write with you. I must write with you. You’re the only way I can move forward.
My disgusting guardian angel. I cannot tell what you are. Human, demon? Do you love children for what they are or do you love eating them? Are you alive or dead? Can you die? You made out like you could.
“Enjoy it. / For it could be my last.”
Yes, yes, apparently that child was your last. Did you know when you wrote that down? Did you know that, and I didn’t? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me? But you can’t have known, surely, because… because you didn’t know you were to become obsessed. You didn’t know you’d retreat into your dying mind with her. Is that what happened? Or did her soul… did you manage to inhale it in time, did it live in your mind, did it cause your obsession?
Yestin, I don’t care for the answers, actually. All I wish, all I ever want now, is for you to return to me. I cannot get over this. You were the best, the worst and everything in between. You gave me the drive, the power and the superiority to present something truly unreal to the world. And yet, I cannot get you back.
I’ve tried writing with Lull, his poems. I wanted to know his mind, because his life is interesting too. But it’s not yours. I couldn’t truly get into it. I wrote about a nobody walking a line three times. The line between life and death. And I never got that. The concept, sure. But, past that, nothing.
Where are you? I spread out your manuscript, I look at it, and I begin crying. I read the first words, Yestin, and I feel depressed and sad. I miss you.
“Hello. / Am I / scared? / scarred? / sacred?”
And that’s enough to ruin me for the rest of the day. I hold your manuscript close to me, hoping that if I never let it go, you’ll return to me. You’ll give me something to work with. I imagine you walking behind me, I talk to you as I walk, I tell you to put your huge hand on my hip so I know you’re close. I walk along the street, sad, angry, in denial, talking to the face only I can imagine.
Return to me. I want you and I need this. Please. Please.
I didn’t even know you. I know you so much better now.
“I’m content to squat here. With my fluorescent lights.”
Don’t go. I need you. Wherever you are. Please.