by Emilie Lafleur
Emilie Lafleur is a writer living in Montreal. Her work has been published in The Void, Soliloquies Anthology, and Metatron’s Ömëgä. Find her @emalafleur.
Look at me, recovering from some
twinhood. Drawing a blue line far
around my eye on the way out.
Going to parc du portentous and
opening an incognito tab to look
up a word I don’t know so no one
will know. The blue line can
stretch forever or break everywhere,
but I don’t care, too convinced I
want to “get back into the essay”.
Call it death of the desirer or
wallower, or longer, longer,
not the direction it’s within
my ability to grow. Death as in
death or longer than that. Look at
me, recovering from some ideal
job. For $200 I’ll end it.
Buying chairs and chairs and
chairs so you have to stay but
there are options now. The easy
commerce, too many kinds of
loose powder at the good pharmacy
and none at the other. This is all
part of a series, I’ll call it mania
works because they are and because it
does. Look at me, recovering from
some cruelty, appropriately my own.
Look at me, a line of sandalwood
on my way out. Call it stalking a
mediocre life. Mania works, of
course it does, I’m sure I really do
want to “get back into the theory”.
Whichever. Recovering from some
easy commerce by buying more
chairs. And so the options multiply.
And so it’s all easy theft. And so this
is not how it’s going to go. It’s going
to go outside or not at all. And so come
to the park or the bridge while I am
somewhere else, while I break the
blue line, and sit where I like.