In the void to my right. On the freeway near the lake where lovers go to bathe during spells of warm warmer. By my side while the rest of the world slips into the maelstrom. They chatter and spit and hack away and just don’t know when to stop. They peel back my foreskin and laugh at what’s underneath. They wrap me in their arms until I sleep like a baby drunk on milk. When she shakes and fiddles with her nipples, I read books regarding mental health but make sure to let no one else know because they’d judge, right? When I’m lying there at night unable to fathom all that I’ve lost, I put words onto paper to let it be clear that there are feelings within me, that I’m not just some kinda statue despite what they say. But life has a habit of dragging you down. It scratches your skin and pokes out your eyeballs while all the time insisting you pretend that you’re fine. That you’re cool, that kinda shit. But I’m not fine, and I’m not cool because with every passing day I’m coming apart one step at a time. But you know the worse part? The worst part is the smile. That stupid smile they tell you to wear. I was told not to stand out, to not draw attention to myself. They insisted I be regular and happy, a right ol’ good machine. So to get my own back I became a writer, and immense joy and delight have come from sticking to my guns. Outside, in the Interzone, this is where I belong. Stalking those that never had the guts to walk away. Masturbating outside their windows and smearing my junk all over the shiny surface of their sparkling cars. This is how I get my rocks off, and when they stand there looking horrified at the sight of me, I slap my bits around like a monkey, reminding them that underneath their smooth veneer, they’re as ugly as me.