I am little slut for consumption.

Give me a deal. Give me a haul. Give me a 20% off and a countdown timer. Give me minor upgrades for over two-grand, packed full of precious metals.

Make me hate myself, corporate zaddy.

Fill my closet so full it vomits t-shirts made from oppression and the tears of children on a 12-hour shift.

aka how to feel shame & save money.

My bag was slipping away from me like bad bladder control. A little at a time. To patch the leak, I found the gaps in the seams by peeling back the curtain and combing through my credit card statements.

I built a database to air my dirty laundry.

Butchered and filed, I massacred my future pay and stored it’s tiny limbs in little Tupperware budgets. A big thick slab for groceries and rent, and little slice left over for weekends.

Now every morning I open up the cadaver and take a look inside. Admiring the quality of my cuts. Remembering that after the light fades from Prime Day, there are endless nights of violence for those who collapse on sweatshop floors or piss in bottles under the assembly line praying to Bezos they can survive endless overnight shipping.

I used to fill this room with sound so loud it would steal my hearing from my future self.

I used to to eviscerate myself of stage until my white pick guard went red and my strings began to rust.

I used to collapse, wet with sweat, hoping this spectacle would fill the cracks in my mental health with gold strong enough to hold me together a little longer. That I would be able withstand the joy and pain of life and hold all of those I loved inside me without losing a drop of them.

In this room I used to heal wounds.

In this room I inhaled black mold.

In this room I picked at scabs until they scarred.