There were three flies in the room today. One had purplish green wings and the other two were just black and hairy. Flies are strange. They never touch each other. Once John said “You’re like a fly.” We were both on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. “Only you don’t move.” I didn’t give a reaction though my soul was shedding tears. Whats that supposed to mean? Why is he being so cruel?. When he said that he was laying with his arms behind his head and an extremely sensitive hard-on. I still didn’t move.
My mother called this afternoon. No doubt to make sure I hadn’t thrown myself out the ground floor window again. That’s my fake suicide trick... my cry for attention. Where others cut their wrists with dessert spoons I fling myself from pathetically low heights. Still, as I never answered the phone I wouldn’t know if it was that or if it were to squeeze a little lemon juice in my wounds. Jesus, if it wasn’t for her John could very well have been Joan and this mess would never have existed.