Monster in Particular

     Written originally on March 1st, this is as close to my Ground Zero work COSA18 will ever see. This has a child’s handful of edits, no more than five at most. It's taking everything in me to not defend this, and even more to share it publicly. As I said earlier, it’s sick love I have with what I write. If I’m going to cut myself open like God Killing Himself, I might as well show you what's inside.

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     What a monster that boy is. Blue jeans, blue lies, this pen is making me so very disillusionarily blue. What’s the source of this royalty, who is blue? Only Skeeter is blue, outside of the Blue Man Group. Group is a wolf pack, I know a wolf and that boy is also a blue hidden monster.

     Muse, maybe, nights like this I am most alone, beside myself with writhe, unsure exactly what I am doing with myself. I have thrown away everything, but have I thrown away anything? No, not really, I hate the falsities of “really”’s.

     Me, monster, is my truth shining into the darkness, I got what I wanted by asking for it myself and assigning it his beautiful face. No matter the span of the pan of the outcome, that boy is a my, my my my monster.

     I’ve had these Skittles since I day I met you, met you figuratively of course.

     I guess I haven’t really met you, really, I haven’t. You’re a stranger to me and I’m realizing that, especially in the breath of this moment. I’m not sure how I fell in love with a stranger, maybe that’s what they’re always talking about in the pictures. I guess I just unexplainably do undeniably love you with all my “heart,” whatever’s left over of it that I haven’t drowned in my island’s shores of self-deceit.

     Self desperation for self preservation I want to destroy you because you hurt me, but how the hell are you hurting me? You’re not, literally, I’m hurting myself and I’m taking all the blame, technically. Theoretically, I WILL. Eventually I will for real, I promise you, because I would take the blame for you, the blame of myself that I rightfully deserve. I know that we only have ourselves to blame and yet I’m wearing my grey shirt—literally—with five fingers pointing in five directions unsure of what the fuck I’m even talking about besides my desperation to not let you go and not lose myself in the process.

     It’s exploding, this room, everything in it, I AM ONLY ONE NEBULA AND MY BLACK HOLESARE SUCK SUCK SUCKING ME AWAY.

     But! I won’t let you warp into god. I can’t no matter what. I could, with right matter of fact reason, the atomic matter equipped with my carbon number of lucky 6. But! there are no bombs here unless I have gone undetected, I am a futile grenade waiting for you to explode me. So I can blame you.

     I guess when the taste-worthy rainbow has been unweaved you’ll fade too, just prove me wrong, okay? Love is science, you love me, so really, really love me if you mean it.