Manifesto. Mine.

I am leaving a place I know is my home. Part of me has already left you, has already left myself, is already hurtling through the sky to the unknown, to the place of my own birth and my own death. Yet I am still here and everything in me is soaked to my skin, everybody is soaked into my skin. I am dripping with all of it, all of you. I know as I leave the layers might peel off, might dry and I might crack and bleed and leave myself open to fresh wounds, but I welcome that. I welcome the wounds that may come as I take my turn in the sky again, welcome it as I sit tight in my aeroplane chair with my plastic fork eating plastic food. I know that as I make small talk with the human being in the chair next to me, I won't see them. I will be covered in my blood bubbling up inside me and coming out of my breath and my pores.  I wonder if the stewardess will offer me some bandages, to cover the wounds from the sight of the other passengers. They don't want to see someone open up and sit there willing themselves alive, the crucifixion of myself to save myself ..."cover yourself dear, cover yourself".

But I won't you see. I have enjoyed it. I have enjoyed the pain that has led me to where I am today. Every bit of my life in the last 24 hours has cut deep into my skin, every bit of my life for the past 8 weeks has cut deep and hit a vein and found me. I may sit here bleeding, but it is hot, hot blood that is racing. It is not stagnant blood that will sit in pools at my feet, its the kind that will shower me and drown me and then keep me alive.

I feel like I am transparent or a projector screen- that if you look at me you will see my life playing as film on my body - my skin the screen. You can see places and people in different parts of my body running over me, if you turn me around you will see a different scene on my back to the one that is playing in my eyes. If you had bought a ticket last night, you would have seen me taking a walk down Hollywood Boulevard with a boy in a hat who held my hand and smoked a camel cigarette. You would have noted we left his mustang tucked, purring in a dark street. You would have sat with us as we watched clowns play in a tiny black theatre in a strip mall in Hollywood on a monday night.

All the time I hear the whir in my head as someone sits inside, turning the reel, feeding in the film until it is coming through my soul, out of my soul onto my skin like waves of celluloid rippling all over my body. You take a step back and the camera pans  out and you can see me there on the boulevard alone, smiling, saying thank you. Thank you for my scars, my wounds, my fuck ups, my tears.

I lay at your feet now and say thank you,

For finding me.


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