[DARK POP] Bring Your A-Game Hustler: New Singles by Oscar/Halsey, Wolf Colony, Little Wolves/Clarence + Jordan Corey/Campus Point
Think myself a temporarily embarrassed happy person. Problem is, can’t get past the temporary. Six days I can handle my feelings. On the seventh I need a fucking Sabbath. Took me six years and 312 Sundays shooting down whiskey to circle back to the seconds that broke me.
Are you insane like me?
Been in pain like me?
Do you tear yourself apart to entertain like me?
Do the people whisper
‘Bout you on the train like me?
Saying that you shouldn’t
Waste your pretty face like me?
11:37am. Turned to the sky. Watched American Airlines Flight 637 fly over my head. The plane, my dreams on their way to Washington D.C. The only thing up about me was my legs. Killing myself there in Section 8 housing on Boren Avenue, in the apartment of a man whose tchatches kept tumbling from Ikea shelving every time someone fucked too hard. He and I had the same disease. Was too sick to move. To speak in front of a crowd of academics at the AAGs who would see me. Dared to live my life a metaphor. Surrounded by the shit of a man whose little somethings was all he saw of a future he could no longer see. Sat in those no-longer-stranger’s cummy sheets until my dopamine was so damaged I fell out.
Three men on the bed. Primed. So I let him shoot me up. Didn’t care, I just couldn’t. I can’t even cut through the confusion. Nothing else did. Except subcutaneous shots that carried me far far fucking away from here. Was on that bed 3 days. Don’t know how many men came and went. Was popular. All messes are.
Saw only the sky, a stream of seven seconds ad nauseum. Saw that plane flying over my head what felt like 73,000 fucking times. Its trajectory redrew my corneas. Reshaped into its flight path. His little somethings shot from the shelving above. Hit my head. Every one felt like a plane crash on my skull. Was crashing and burning. All that was left to do was to soak in the gasoline I shot out as I careened towards the surface of the earth. I crumbled, so ashamed.
He died seven weeks later. Was still stuck somewhere behind my eyes. He was my only serenity when no one said a word to me. And I sat there, alone. Sweating it out on my couch. Cos words were something you shaped on your tongue for the living. Hated him for escaping. Seeing god.
Seven weeks later I sat on a chair outside my advisor’s offce. PhD students I saw as intellectual gods surrounded me. Was only the second week since my heart had attacked me. I remember them saying if it was me. i’d be done. Faced them, said some strength-y cliches and Oprah-level realness. Cos that’s a fraction of the real me. Never give the fuck up. In my head, I just couldn’t. I can’t even cut through the confusion. We stumbled all together towards a cafe. Only cos I was limping. Talked about a David Harvey book review I was excited for. Somewhere in that conversation my neurons started shooting themselves. Suddenly, I couldn’t see my future.
You were restless and reckless
You defend yourself by your mistakes
I have witnessed the sinners
Become the winners
To become who I wanted
Had to sacrifice my peace of mind
Forget the past
Bring your A-Game hustler
Devour your monsters
Excused myself to the toilet. Told them I was taking my medicine. Heard them talking about me. Don’t know what they said. Doubt it was any shade. Probably sympathy. Wanted to kill myself. So ashamed. Was just a disaster dancing in front of them. Wanted to be their peer. So wasn’t that anymore. Sat in the bathroom. Gasped. Suffocated in all the sadness I was swimming in. Threw some water on my face. Smashed my head into the mirror. So many times I bled. Hugged myself. Went back out, smiled. My A-Game was so absent. Couldn’t let them see. Sorta knew no one would devour my monsters.
There’s no shame in this game
Live with no regrets
My brain was broken. Could only think in short sentences. 3 weeks, 3 months at a time. Everything else, wishful thinking.
Every moment, can taste it
Focus on the past and you’ll forget
The life you had
Don’t get lost in it
Are you lost in it?
Took me so many years to pinpoint the pathology of my pain. When I lost my power of identity. Stopped seeing me as powerful. I’m a fucking putz. I want to go back home. When I was me. Survived the disease no one dared to think I would. I’ve got a warrior heart cutting its way out the ghost heart I’ve been giving to my fucks, everyone for years. Poked a hole in the pain, it’s bleeding out on the bed. Like I was so many years ago.