Not Sadness by Rachel Holmes

Rebecca lived in some sort of communal residence. She found herself among many faces and bodies. People that had come to die of sickness, disease, heartbreak. She did not know if they were real or of the past reincarnated as Melissa, Sarah, Julie, Edward. The eyes with which she conversed over soupy rice and chicken in the canteen.
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two goldfingers in salty potato chips
three goldfingers on a bronze horn

I and you I you with I

Subsections of thoughts derived in sequences of normality. What is an actual place of comfort? I'm in my chair, it's lovely. Did you take your medicine? Yes. I did, yesterday. I should do that. Yes. Creations of marketed thoughts in theft of reality sold and distributed for profitable gain as you sit in your room contemplating your next fuck. Your next fuck, LOL. You still haven't found one. Asia. Conversations at a desk, the typewriter livens, as each scroll leads to the next sentence a page is filled. Reality hits again. Friends are a must to survive, reality must interact with life outside thought. She sits in her room, the screen fills with letters of typed loves realities and adventures to be fulfilled. Next day, must keep up. Don't hurt those you care about, remember yourself. Don't change. You understand. The coffee is near the pot. Too lazy to get up though it'll be soon. Soda is of comfort when the water is sick. It pisses me off, “what?” The earth is getting sick, so am I. I'm drinking soda. Now the food is sick. I'm scared. It's happening again, the food the water, I can't afford to live like this, soon it'll be the clothes. I hope not. That's what they're saying. Reality I can. It'll be okay. Yeah right like last time. Right. Nude modeling. This should work. Stop caring and respond when you have to. I thought of that today. I think I'm over caring, that was supposed to be last time. I hope it sticks. It'll have to.

Haircuts are a big deal when someone grows straws in your head/wrapping a shredded emoji of club soda when you’re not looking/expecting/riding on the hope of fluorescent razors to make a glazed u-turn on your back/how does that even happen? /your back a u-turn freeway?/what is that, like a Picasso of moon landing?/I mean, the truffle-like juice is only a myth/moon-pie I get/but it’s not. so just chill! ‘kay?!/it’s a hoax meant to feed your sea-saw fists with paper moolah & sometimes rubber vomit/I think it’s seasalt/make sure the stalls are public swear words, that way you can text lit-screen ‘as fuck!’ tears to any lawnmower/know it, also non illegally/the way to check is to float each eye with a monotonous plastic duck/sink or swim, the quack! is a urinated river/still/complaints of buzz cuts will always be relevant no matter the amount of crack diets gnawing at your pubic braids/taco tuesday pigtails/two shots of vodka smell on your grassfed bacteria haven/& you’re gold.

Waiting for one hungry fish
To claim a deceptive hook.

We tell them what they want
They don't know who they are
Find me the next Fab Four
Cries the fat cat – with cigar