Fool Heaven?

 I was a wounded apple. Some people will throw you away for having a bruise and curse the fact you're damaged. Others will throw you on the ground to watch you break completely. I wanted someone to eat me whole and appreciate my inherent goodness. No I didn't. I wanted to be left to rot. I'd die pretty, several months from now, coated in wax. Maybe I'd feel the warmth of a few hands looking for the right one in the meantime. That honestly made me sick. They ruined me by letting me go. It's their fault for not going with their first instinct. Did love at first sight really ever fail anyone? 

I want to exit this metaphor. The forbidden fruit might have been a strawberry, for Christ's sake. Isn't that what they call it when you have the level of wound I'd been referring to? Whatever. I know too much and I'm mortal. I can remember being murdered. 

What if God brings us back to life because he just can't keep the sick shit from happening but has it worked in that we will all make a triumphant return a lá Jesus? Yeah, there's no heaven for us–just another vagina to shoot out. Heaven is God's “me time” still. I wonder if we'll ever be let in. He does us like Moses cause we ended up fucking our Egyptian adopted mothers so to speak. We get to the doorway but can't quite go in. 

What have I really done wrong? …Useless question for you when anyone else is the judge. I can feel my heart imploding. Maybe life really is more of a gift and all that character development and wantonly forbidden dick and pussy really is better than golden harps and choirs of angels who think they're better than us anyway? I'm mad though. I want to be done. I don't feel like mine is going anywhere now. I think I may really just be a loser with a bad attitude. I want God to speak to me. 

Yesterday I caught my other aunt jumping up off her knees, my uncle dressed in a heavy white terrycloth bathrobe seated in my eldest aunt's wheelchair, the devil's dick incarnate. 

The stench of piss and shame permeated the stagnant air in the house. I wanted to wake Lulu up but I didn't have the nerve. So I just left. The entire cake I'd bought was replaced by a piece Elaine had cut before I could move. My uncle Elroy said, “You know, you really should learn how to forgive people.” He gave me six dollars for gas. I'd flung the piece of cake out my car window around the corner and driven til the heap ran out of gas somewhere outside Shreveport, Louisiana. 

“Did I.. D--did I… d-did I ever tell you..that I used to be O.J. Simpson?” a fellow damaged fruit asked. He may had once been a bruised apple but had become more of an annoying orange. An advertisement for a 20th anniversary of his trial special had just come on TV in the day room of the psych facility. Apparently all witnessly protected black men from the 90s are called Kenneth now. 

He just gaped at me, impossibly wide-eyed and I said, “Did you do it?” He looked at me and said, “Well, all I remember… is standing at the gate with a bloody…” he searched for a word. “Golf club?” I offered. “No. It was not a golf club. It was like a…” he mimed a jabbing motion. “Like for a fireplace–a fire poker.” 

O.J. had caught his wife Kendra in their home, formerly the DuPont mansion getting railed by the one his novel refers to as ‘the fairy faggot’. Little had he understood, Kendra had been attempting to rescue him with the Nosferatu enzyme to keep him from getting impetigo from his racist owners. Anyway, he’d missed on the swing and killed her instead. They let him live but will never ever publicize it. Maybe he's in a sort of heaven now? He offered to buy me a car, said we could go on a date to Raising Cane's Chicken. 

Well where do you go from there? I'm glad I have a home with my folks still even though it reminds me of what I still haven't become for myself. They picked up me and my fluffy orange cat from the shelter. I'd driven him back to Texas from New Mexico. I wish I hadn't broken my phone. Highway 42 North ends uphill with a covered park bench. I wish anyone would believe me. Yeah. Eat me whole. Appreciate me. 

My murder hadn't been a crime of passion. It’d been Armenian men who dosed and scalped me and may or may not had raped me. I don't remember that part but I've had the disgusting fear of getting fucked in my sleep. It had been New York. This life. The first time. Are we just in part deaux O.J. heaven now? Douglas Adams wouldn't read this. I need a cigarette. 

I tried to put my other murder off on my sister. Like that movie, Constantine. Like she'd been Queen Isabella and impaled and mocked by an ugly Portuguese man in a dress, not me. I just have to know it. Betelgeuse? 

BEETLEJUICE

BEETLEJUICE 

BEETLEJUICE

Am I in the Land of the Dead yet? I need some quiet. I hate what that curse has done to the world. 

You know, cocaine, in its pure form, brings out all seven of the Deadly Sins in anyone who uses it. That's what I believe. That guy who stabbed all five of his female companions in Idaho? Ghost pirate cocaine. Same with Johnny Depp. 

Why can't I communicate this to a living counterpart who might smile and tell me I'm beautiful? I need a lover I can really feel.