On Being a Dying Self

They’re after me, I know it. Not the aliens as we expect–that’s a different story. These are men with magic scalpels that want to transform my life through subjugation and pain. They’re after my woman she-man parts, they’re after my good parts, they’re after my pain and my glory. I smell smoke, see it billowing in the air. Crying out, they hear but they don’t care. They are hell bent on making me miserable, on keeping things status quo and all the while a magic-oriented marshal law takes hold.

They visit me daily, sometimes for hours at a time, tinkering, wondering who I am, why I matter, and what’s the loss anyway? I’m a felled human, I’ve been smoked before, to them there’s no point in listening. In their eyes, I must have deserved it and I’ve been thrown to the wolves for consumption.

I’ve advanced myself to escape the pain this time. By this I mean I’ve evolved, I’ve advanced my life form. I hear thoughts? No. I am psychic? Never. But whatever I am, they don’t like it–the magic men, that is (the aliens are impressed. Maybe there is hope for the world yet.)

I transform myself, and the sorcerers notice. They try to pick me apart like meth heads with nothing better to do than see how a cell phone works from the inside. I’m useless, broken apart and torn from within. In constant pain and fear, I can’t manage my finances, clean house, or some days wipe my ass strait. Is it over yet? am I done with course of therapy they deem necessary for their well-being? I don’t know. Today is a new day. Tomorrow is a new day. I just keep hanging on in hopes they will eventually leave me the hell alone. I take my meds, talk to the doctor and lean on mom for support.

 

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