I had a panic attack in the street once.
I couldn’t go home, so
I just sat on the ground, screaming,
my makeup smeared all over my face, my nose blazing red like Rudolph the Reindeer’s, and the sounds erupting from my mouth were not some modest sniffles or erotic sighs, but hideous, wet gargles as of a jellyfish being dropped into a juice blender.
No one would look at me.
Everyone passed by in a hurry, acting as if I was a spot on their retina, a threat to the orderly society. The madness that lures behind the corner as we sit crouched in silence, pondering the significance of emphatic connection
Stuck on the wrong frequency
I adjust my vocal chords again
humming sweet nothings into the radio transmitter
A distress-call from a dying race
Knowledge of our ultimate uselessness
has been a splinter dug into my backbone, ticking in dissonance with my pulse
I reach my slashed wrists out to grab a corner of your coat
Please, sir! If you think I’m good, let me know now, I won’t last very long
supernovae burn too bright and fade too soon
bringing entire galaxies down with them
I see you walk by as I peek out trough the window blinds,
(your greasy hair flapping against your neck
your cheeks fat with self-righteousness)
and after all of this,
all I can think is
who the fuck were you to me?
There’s no intergalactic rescue service
coming to our aid when we abandon our ideals and give up on adoration
how could we obtain the interest of an extraterrestrial life form
when we don’t even bother to try and understand each other?
to sate my cosmic homesickness
I turn to the faces of passers-by
but their distrait eyes only reflect what I already know
[Murder Tramp Birthday, previously Malicia Frost, dropped the disguise and is now publishing under her real name on SD. A hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland, she enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her works often deal with mental illness. More of her works can be found at her personal blog.]