I'm Not a Robot

A man I had just met offered me some advice: “Go fuck yourself.” So I unzipped. The police interrupted before I could finish. You can become that easily the kind of person you never wanted to be, pale and disturbed, a suspect with an ax, probably some people from the neighborhood already dead, another sitting on the curb being consoled by a friend who is screaming for help.

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I looked down and saw blood drips on the floor and stairs. Everything became blurred. Men in dark glasses stopped anyone from leaving the building who displayed the willful expression of a would-be martyr. All I was trying to do was go home. They laughed and told me not to do it again. I probably won’t make a complaint, but I don’t like it. There are so many places where a person can get lost and not even realize it.

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We have very little control over what we hear or how we’re greeted. Someone on the bus says something about nightmare bacteria. There’s in us some stuff I wish there wasn’t. I don’t want to further burden you with the question, “Where do I go?” If there are clues, they’re clues that haven’t yet crystallized. It’s like I’m the detective in the movie who leafs forlornly through photographs of a crime scene. Meanwhile, the number of crimes just continues to rise.