Je t'aime.

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The apartment was an art gallery of crazy adolescence that Liz had gone so long to avoid. And even though it was all something read about in books and hinted at by her best friend that lived in the mountains, she had started to believe it was merely a fragment of the imagination that others aspired towards. What she didn’t realize is that people were capable of the wild failure of being reckless. She hadn’t known it to be any fun, and she didn’t understand those that got lost at the bottom of a wine bottle or wasted away their last pennies on concerts and strange articles of clothing that came pre-made with holes already strategized well and prayed over, so that they might continue to deteriorate in a way that was desirable. This was all new, this was all enlightening. At the bottom of the tunnel she had been swimming for and had been pulled down under, she was collecting stories of those that strongly believed “they couldn’t”, and she grew determined to spark the plug within, that made them believe “they could”. It was all a new thing of theater for her and it reminded her vaguely of Ornette Coleman’s Chronology and the epileptic seizures that her aunt had when she was only that of a small child.

What penetrated most, was the smell of dog urine that seeped through the atmospheric and left a sort of splinter in the way she went on believing she was the only one to exist substantially. It wasn’t really the aroma, but rather the way it left puddles of clear liquid that only ever looked like water. The sticky aftermath was something messed over, by that man with the long neck. Some bitter lemon soap was trailed down in a brilliant white bath of suds, and it was left there only for a few seconds time, before a white napkin was drained across and off the wood floor, bringing to light a yellow stain that looked more like an ink blot, one would be asked to read after attempting suicide by sticking their head in the oven. In fact, the lingering illness of afflicted pain, became something of a joke, and all her crying would be nodded off as something normal, something cute, something unimportant. When someone whispered, “It’s okay, it’s okay”, she wanted to shake them and scream that it wasn’t, that she had a storm eating her flesh, that she was something close to death, and that she wanted to get wild and seek the fruit of the mind that called her crazy.

The river of inner turmoil left no mark on the sheets of the bed she slept in, and the only detriment of the waterfalls, was that horrid place she had drawn.  It was this same kingdom of demons that kept her locked up in the cement castle, what with three rooms and a toilet that left Henry Miller sobbing, of his many credentials insisting that there be genuine art in the room where you took a monumental piss. Her revenge came in form of the painted oils of the daily mask she’d use to rid the skin of red vampires, and she’d leave long strands of hair in the sink, so that she might prove she had passed through and got naked freely, only to never be touched in ways she would have liked.

These subtleties were her own way of rebellion, and so when she was offered weed on the streets, she smiled and said yes, because she felt like it would be something nice to try. This all of course came to crash with the automobile that killed her baby sister. That one night when the giraffe of a boy didn’t come home and instead remained in East Village, she let fireworks drain out the fingers and had better sex than if he was there. The next afternoon when he showed up with a face that lied and screamed of obstruction and denial, she just pulled him in for a kiss, because she knew that’d hurt more than if she just disappeared. Her love is what suffocated the light in his chest. She was blind.