Letter of Resignation.

Dear…,

A few wearily-bled thoughts before I get to the point. I'm allowed to digress. I'm allowed to be bitter. It's my big day.

These cataracts make me look like a porn star in so many ways.
Oh, you want me to list them, the ways?
My vision’s fucked.
I see me smeared across the mirror, Dorian Gray-ed, mutable shards of me.
To onlookers I project a look of removal, suspension, cross-fire.
My world is filled with the things kids aren't supposed to get:
(Wisdom,
Pneumonia,
Money,
Bruised soul,
Fast car,
Broken heart,
Zurich account,
Arthritis):
I used to play guitar in the band.
Then I got arthritis and had to stop.
And that's why I don't just look like a porn star.

But look into my eyes,
Past the contact lenses and protein crystals,
And tell me I don't want love.
If, by the time you phone me,
I'm dead, leave a message,

And make my ego the biggest supernova bastard in hell.

I'm giving you twenty-five minutes to tell me why I'm in this world,
And then I'm looking elsewhere.

Consciousness is so fucking harrowing. When, overnight, my flesh becomes meat,
I'll be happy, the product will stop answering back,
So we'll, both, be happy.
Like, remember(?) when the evening’d spill into the second bottle of ripped-off vodka. I'd sling arrows at you, crockery, shit, punch myself in the face.
If my meat tastes of piss, sue my undertaker, and he'll
Fudge my commital. A snowballing revenge, trickling over and beyond the precipice of death.
All artists are worth more after they're dead.
I'll be living proof of that. The videos’ll fly like bugs after gnawing their way fat on the sepia meat of a dead kid. Would my self-erasure be a breach of contract? Good. Fuck, I used to play guitar in a band;
They happily absolved me of duty because arthritis is a ‘natural disaster’; That’s how you excuse your attitude towards life, I guess,
And why you can exploit it with the solipsistic glee of an evangelist.
You turned a nobody into a famous nobody. Big deal. Everything changes But nothing. Every night I debase myself before pixels instead of…

"I'm gonna make you a star" you guaranteed.
"A dead star is called a black hole” – my heart coughed into its stiffening palm; pills sticking to its marble clamour.
A horrible echo-less void. That means:
(No tears before playtime/
No brainteasing twist to placate the rotting masses who buy the shit I lend my name to/
No faux-emoting/
No air, to remind yourself that your body’s working/
No golden handshake/
No curtain call/
No messy afterbirth/
No “can I have a receipt?”/
No tomorrow.)

...Instead of people.

In your absence I learned to separate love from dependence,
And really, the division is as loud and angry as water from oil.

I wish I could play guitar. I want to play guitar in a band. Big wow.

The oil sinks, but stays in the glass, and that's what I'm frightened of spending my days wading through.

Please accept my resignation. The alternative was, hey, I drown in the oil of your bullshit love. I have, and am, resigned.