Occupied: Photographs and the Last Kiss You Did Not

I am a very graphic animal. There are jingles on my two feet and my hips tell lyrics when I walk. I crack everything I touch. I could undress you on the tip of my fantasy but I do not. I do not hold you because I might lose you and then how shall I crack? I do not touch beautiful spirits. They are so sacred and me, me? Unholy. 

This feeling of being on the verge, this Byronism is all I have to exist. If you tell me to grow empty, I will because I am already that which has the power, desire, prickling sensation you have always been scared of. You should ask me what I do becoming a materialist when I hate it the most. I would tell you. I would impregnate myself with all the bad things you don't even talk about in private. Your hickey, Your tee. Then, then I would bear forth monsters whom you would not recognize because you would never know what the hell they are. 

I know I am growing mad so I like to preserve whatever I could. Pick whatever I could. Everyone tells me to stop but you know a little secret, mad people are the smartest. They keep getting madder. They know how it is like to be otherwise. And I ? I would fill up the papers more if only the kohl in my eyes have not been all over my face and I do not have to wipe it out over and over again. Obsessively. Until it turns red. 

Ask me. My therapist told me, it's just the sunburn. Should I then? That's not what I am telling. Then what are you even telling? Even banging a door is a luxury you see. Rust eaten doors do not sound. I found it. What's even there in telling? If living is applause, I would. You heard it earlier from me. I am a materialist and dying is just an art. Well, the funny thing is: I also am a narcissist, a hypocrite to call myself an artist.