I wake in a pink coffin, Malibu sunrise, California dream and palm trees baptize this show. Depression smells like plastic perfume, an unlit cigarette between my barbie lips. It ticks, like a psalm ticking down to a bomb. Face-palm. Il n’est de orquestra. A magazine-shaped guillotine castrating my fantasy. Hasan Piker on loop just to scoop up my femininity and fear of men. It’s a coupe, maybe, guess I’m just a corpse wanting make-up, wanting to fuck fame until fame fucks me back and spits out glitter in a Lynchesque cable table TV-screen, while I dream there’s an eviction staged as performance art, a postmodern simulated tragedy on hyperdrive putting me on fire. did I mention I lost my partner and gained a monster and called it love? ha! ha! laugh with me audience. studio lights burning holes through my face, I lied to the doctor; no flashbacks here, just cinematic seizures in PTSD waiting for her close-up, Mulholland Drive kissing me with open scissors, am I Swedish girl or just made up? am I survivor punchline in a sitcom? angel or receipt stapled to a fridge? every man I wanted turned into a laugh track and every authority turned to silencio, Kafka scribbles eternity on a napkin, and I’m still here begging for a door that locks, a paycheck that doesn’t choke, a body that isn’t staged for audience approval, tick tick tick, and there is the applause.
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