Still Life with Blood and Clay

01.19.01
11.23.03

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I feel cold, sluggish and anti-social and decide to pretend I’m stoned. Hate group work. Blink. Blink. Swallow. Sniff. Eye-grains. Chipped, paint-crusted nail polish. I don’t think I like listening to smart kids talk. Breast-heavy, sweater lint. I forgot to take my meds this morning. Wish class would dissolve, people breaking up into fluttering bits of colored paper. Some days I feel like turning into a turtle, hoisting myself onto a flat, warm rock and waiting drowsily for schizophrenia to strike. In my dream was a
bathtub, filled with blood again. Blood and clay. Lee disappeared and all I could find was people telling me what a terrible person I am. I think about the warm, resiny smoke of a mouthful of hash. About rolling naked across the class floor, faking seizures. About just getting my stuff and walking out. About selling my car and spending all the money on gumballs. I’ll fill a huge aquarium with gumballs. I’ll paint the white walls in wet Jell-O and watch it dry. I’ll poke out my eyes, change my name to Tierisius.