substack
(p.s. drag me!!!!!)
Breakup Letter
here i am falling into a web of pleonasms:
i can’t do this in the sense that i don’t own
the facilities to yield the kind of outcome
you’re looking for, in the sense that
i am lacking the capabilities to do this, to be
in the way you want me to be, and even
to be in a way where i would be such a way
where i can’t. does that make sense?
ultimately, i can’t be because i can’t can’t,
because i am not even in the same realm
of canning, so can’t is out of the question.
i really wish i could give you a body
to touch, or even just some random thing,
some physical, panting, static membrane
for you to cut open. in truth, i can’t
explain this situation without laying out
the whole gist: long ago, i emerged from a lattice
of dust, miraculously purposed from utter
mess. i was born from a blink, and came to be
in that way. do you get it now? i’m a simulacrum
of the real thing, a play-doll playing skinbag.
there is nothing here for me to let you down with.
i can’t make this up: touch me and there won’t
be any transparancy for your hand to slip though.
when the dust shape-shifted into whatever
that i am, it remained that way; stuck
in mutation, perpetually trying to create
a thing that can. i am static buzz stationed
at failure. this is a long and repetitive letter,
and in that way, i hope it consecrates
my message: i am a jumble of mishmash
and disappointing explanations. what
i can end on is that i’d like my records back,
and that i’m sorry.
i can’t do this in the sense that i don’t own
the facilities to yield the kind of outcome
you’re looking for, in the sense that
i am lacking the capabilities to do this, to be
in the way you want me to be, and even
to be in a way where i would be such a way
where i can’t. does that make sense?
ultimately, i can’t be because i can’t can’t,
because i am not even in the same realm
of canning, so can’t is out of the question.
i really wish i could give you a body
to touch, or even just some random thing,
some physical, panting, static membrane
for you to cut open. in truth, i can’t
explain this situation without laying out
the whole gist: long ago, i emerged from a lattice
of dust, miraculously purposed from utter
mess. i was born from a blink, and came to be
in that way. do you get it now? i’m a simulacrum
of the real thing, a play-doll playing skinbag.
there is nothing here for me to let you down with.
i can’t make this up: touch me and there won’t
be any transparancy for your hand to slip though.
when the dust shape-shifted into whatever
that i am, it remained that way; stuck
in mutation, perpetually trying to create
a thing that can. i am static buzz stationed
at failure. this is a long and repetitive letter,
and in that way, i hope it consecrates
my message: i am a jumble of mishmash
and disappointing explanations. what
i can end on is that i’d like my records back,
and that i’m sorry.