Pamela Qiu

So his name is Jack, or Derek, or Ron, and I can make all the spurious links to that single, self-destructing, orientating centre of my twisted subconscious (SPACE.) I see prams and a stance, he is waiting by the sidewalk; and even in my crazy visions it is not I that he is waiting for. It is I - who gasps, to breathe, it is I - who gets shot in the heart - and it is I - who cannot emerge from down under. This is despite the slow, numb, life self-preparation. Despite that this is the one scene I was waiting for to happen, to pop up within touching distance as I walk home. My hair is a mess, tied up; I wear no concealments, I am just as I am. (BLANK.) I didn't know I was in the mirror, and I can't say I like what I see. (BLANK SPACE.) Worry, or else I was working, and having stomachaches and headaches, and thinking I know now why Money is delusional, or at least, living in the unreal.