alex went to her death because she thought she'd never feel this way again
sketchbook in hand, fingers and lips inked like eyes rimmed with red and black, and blue plastic hair falling into my face, making me forget to long for the waist long black curtain i lived in for so long. my eyes burn, my body aches and it is another sleepless hour, distracting myself with little doodles, a tiny portion of an epic tale. i cut and paste again, filling in the figure with the images, glue half transferring the images, broken stains so fitting for the story. it is my life in fairytale this comic strip; sad to know how soon it is coming, how soon my utter abandonment of everything that may seem enjoyable now is. the poisonings hunt me, and when i am back, when i am at my shining, originally damaged pinnacle, it comes, a quiet jab, the cold and the headache, and then the days rolling in bed, writhing in blankets and meaninglessness, tasteless nausea, my own sweet furry vivian girl cooing in his sleep, his art forgotten in my illness. my loves, they are idols all, now in oh the most literal way possible.