“You want me to? Okay God. I’ll listen. My hand is on the pink box, and it’s fuzzy grey-whites everywhere inside. You want me to? Okay, I’ll listen, God. I’ll listen.”
Somebody is talking to themselves in the room. Do they like fuzzy boxes?
Crashing thoughts. Wreck.
Somebody is trying to calm themselves, but to us, we don’t know. It is calm for us.
“Crashing. God? Crashing. God? My hand is on the pink box, and it’s fuzzy with trauma. Grey-white trauma everywhere. Repeating.”
You want him to? Okay then, he is talking to you.
“God?” He is talking to you from his room.
He is talking. “Crash noises, God? Where is the pace going?”
He is telling himself inside, and he says get me out. Why won’t he keep his hand on the television, God? You know the television is only reading his life to him. Fuzzy memories is all; he is only a little human. He will always do what you say; he couldn’t do anything other. So why do you feel bad?
“God, I am smiling at you with my burning head. I love you. Please kill me. It hurts. I don’t want to live again. Please no.”
Why are you making him sick? Let go of the television. Let go of the television.
“God, your television is screaming at me.”
It keeps replaying, doesn’t it? Why did you do that to yourself?
“AAHH!” The throat tears effortlessly.
The corner of the head smacks heavily against the counter. Is it replaying? The thoughts? There is ringing now. Monotone inside. It’s louder. It’s ringing like tinnitus. Kill me. Repeating me to death. Heartlessly smiling with tears. Stay here for me, a while longer, God. I’m killing something; I wanna know how I am, I don’t wanna.
I feel like a monospace letter on a computer screen. I feel like a crying kid that took something. The sun goes down, warm all over my cold. That small window in the abandoned room. It looks like thirty years old, like me. My mom used to own this place.
God, where are you? It is cold. You can make it stop now. All of the panic is squeezing me cold. I’m like a monospace room to myself. I like my pink television.
Do you ever think there is anyone out there? Beyond this carpetless floor? Beyond the sound of ringing? Beyond everything I do to keep this machine running? I feed it every day to set my body on fire. Where is she? I forgot. Oh. I hope I don’t die yet. I feel so numb; if God isn’t wrestling me, then I am not always paranoid. I’m tired.
I shuffle on the floor and tremble in awe when I think of God, and where is my pink television? The phone is ringing—
Sharp pains in my ear like a flatline make me smile like a good puppet.
I’m a good puppet. I hope I am dead.