Skullet
I’m still here. Approaching the middle ages, listening to AI mimic my favorite singer—singing a song that didn't exist when he shot himself in the face.
I pretend to leap off balconies all the time. The energy I feign exudes. Belle of the ball. It's not a true sign of wanting to quit. I'm not going offline. Yeah I make the joke all the time, sure. I thought about logging out—not because of you. It's my fault. It's my fault I'm too aware I had a choice. I would've killed to be like Paul. Unaware. He doesn’t know what he did. I'm overwhelmed by free will. Either way I still don't want to kill myself.
I remember a slip there in covid when I was asking for it. Forced monotony—what a curse. We weren’t in love anymore and we didn’t know how to leave. Then my cluster headaches came for war. Maybe the isolation added to the agony. I resorted to mushrooms and I want to acknowledge it probably did help, but there was a slip there for a moment. I almost did it. Not in a dramatic way. But it was the most it ever felt possible. I could just turn this all off. What is the clearest expression of free will, if not going out on your own terms?
Even when I was suckered into this cool version of rotting, I thought, no way—I would never. That was Hemingway shit. If I make it to the yacht I'm parking on the yacht, unbuttoning my pants and saying thank you. I'm not taking a goddam shotgun to the face. Not after lobster tails. But for now I'm just sitting here listening to an AI rendition of Kurt Cobain covering Doja Cat. Chasing fresh nostalgia