s&^89ign@l ******#$con^^^78nection week
we /reely/ fucked this up. i feel like gremlin. like a8 trash past midnight. like got /too wet/ no where to dry off. i’m shedding skin. shedding metal skin. feeling organic. a shelf in whole foods. i’m bodega cat. yr face is skipping scratched game bored blow on the cartridge bloë b błœ błø dizz zst st static fingers page not going not found not going found not going to be grnd pass go trade resources build build build void destroy wait homelnd redirecting….%^%#€*++¥#
i have trouble sleeping at night. my teeth are cold. i hear they’ve found a way to un-boil eggs. nyquil gives me nightmares. don’t give me that weird look. yr a ghost, but don’t worry you’re like, a cool ghost, kind of. you still don’t like echo and the bunnymen but fuck that doesn’t mean you need to turn it down. quit touching my stereo. playing all that sax. shouldn’t your ghost body just pass through? a ghost in the shell. am i the shell? how are you even doing that? a scratched up dirty mirror, i haven’t looked at it in days. are you still behind me, jamming? this damn fine coffee. i know how much you love soundtracks. ///i’m so tired///. don’t give me that i’ll forget this in the morning look, that please don’t text anyone else about this look, that p l e a s e don’t post this look. brb. i’m reading about blind people echo locating. :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
///i feel like shit///
::yr always online, just don’t write about this; if you can help it::
still the ghost in the shell. i need a break from screens; i can only see you through glass and it’s fucking with my eyesight. i’m writing a song about carpets. it doesn’t have any words. i’m still having nightmares. you cut my hand off in one of them i had to sew it back on. i don’t know if it’s a seasonal thing. the bright is too bright for this room. i should put my phone away earlier, i need a good night’s rest. i’m breathing through one nostril—everything tastes like ice. my skin is dry and curling off. ///i still can’t fucking sleep///. you told me to try zzzquil. the sun hasn’t come out in a month. i might not dream, but now this cough won’t go away. i don’t know which is worse .::the shell is rattling::. i wipe flecks of coughed up spit and phlegm from my screen with an old napkin. can ghosts feel sound? i read weird articles to pass the time. let’s talk conspiracies, maybe. i haven’t gotten out of bed. i hit keys fiddly; i almost turn on the webcam. the nsa is watching us; they’ve climbed into your shell, we’ve been evicted. /fucking/ rude. they may have tapped our phones so i should tell you the /worst/ thing :: you are gone. i am feral. i crawl out of my body, this body o’ mine, there is a seam in my belly—it splits, i crawl out on all fours into the snow. my skin suit melts into gooey slush. i am a hellhound. i am feral. and i still don’t get jazz.
Stephon Lawrence is a Brooklyn born & based writer, and artist. She is a graduate of the MFA in Writing at Pratt Institute and is an editor of The Felt, a journal of otherworldly poetics. Her work is forthcoming or has appeared in Gandy Dancer, Cosmonauts Avenue, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Glitter Mob, and The Fem. Stephon spends her free time watching anime, yelling about white supremacy, and being real cute for the ‘gram. You can find her on Twitter @nnohpetss.