“I always liked that picture of him shirtless, with the scrap cigarette hanging out the mouth. The one with the questionable liveliness in the eyes, the one where his arms look all tied up and awkward. I would look at it for hours and find some sort of answer in the tattooed skin. The rough cheeks that reminded one of chipped heineken bottles would serve as some scripted signal towards the road I’d need to venture to remain what it was that made me genuine.”
This was something said in those interviews I’d have with myself, in which I’d imagine I was an actress or singer or other loud mouth who worked their ass off for the art they bunked up and set to flame. In these same reveries, I’d laugh until delirious and start nodding off towards crying fits that spit a vicious poison. My hair would become just like wings or fins and my head would morph into the blooming petals of a flower that wasn’t ready to get bloodied with menstrual flow. This would be something gravitated towards, because of that one dirty film I saw the summer I had lost my virginity behind a wood door that creaked shut and stifled the sounds of Bill Callahan and miss Welch.
I just remember my baby cousin in her casket and Elliott’s voice serving as a cushion to the blurred dimension of all the mourners. I would stand in line and feel numb, but still let rivers fall from the face. He was incredibly the only person I wanted crawling in my bed at night. And what the fuck, I’d let him. The music remained there all nice and heavy and transformative. I’d cluck loud and pouty and go to school pistoled in the gut, with zombie eyes working as a weapon that screamed: “Get the hell away!” It was a sort of hibernation.