Alexander Michael Ziperovich
They fed me vast numbers of different, multicolored pills.
Those were the pills to get off the first pills.
Things stopped being easy around 4th grade. I know, bake me a fucking cake.
I’ll make you hate me. I’ll make you sympathetic and cross eyed with hope.
I’ll shoot dope with your hope while I snort coke on what’s left of your grandmother’s teal colored vanity mirror. Oops.
No, I’ll just try to be stable. Stability. Easy to spell. Hard to achieve. Worth shit?
I guess I’m all the way stable, all the way numb, all the way fucking dumb.
I won’t stay this way, I will use guns or arrows or invent new fires I will NOT stay this way I will break things all things I will crush granite to dust so fine that you will take a bath in the remnants of my wreckage, I shall not be consumed by stability. A horrid word. I will smash all of this as long as my brain is there to witness it all go down.
I want my flames to lick my other flames and kiss profanely.
I want to fucking crochet with hypodermic needles.
I want this motherfucking stupid fucking program to stop telling me that “fucking” is spelled wrong because it is not spelled wrong at all. Fuck.
I was never a victim; I chose this, however convoluted though my choice may have been, I chose all of this and now I choose to dismantle what I have chosen for myself without dismantling myself [so I can write].
The only reason I want to keep breathing is to write. The pills weigh on these fingers like blocks of frozen concrete. My insanity is better; at least then I can write.
I will not die before I have written my peace.
Know that if you know nothing else of me.