twisted plot

reader, this is a fiction

Act I

hey, how are you? are you doing well? if not, it’s not my problem but also my problem and also our problem and also their problem because we live in a structure of disempowerment but hey what is agency, are we agentive subject with illusionary freedom to choose—let me tell you a story of cannot do; in this realm of us, we are doomed, fucked to fail, failed to fuck oh my oh my where is thy faithfulness. now now i need you to listen, oh no you’ve already refused, alright it’s okay, i will still talk anyway because my silence roars through the grammar of my trembled desire and you’re the one who keeps copy+paste a self-help sentence about wanting to exist/live/love/laugh taken from one’s substack post without editing aha! i got that; i’m making sure this rant is unquotable for your click clack comfort click clack click my fingers work around words, inside the primitive neurons not at all vaginal but oopsie i can’t stop being so sapphic and gay and disgusting; anyway, the sliced replaced body of them has carried the cruelty of the sex, of the gender, of the blablabla genitalia and sexualized—overly sexualized!! damn—organs;

Act II

hey hey hey don’t cry, don’t beg, we’re not in the middle of breaking up, in the middle of making love, in the middle of making intimacy, in the middle, in the corner, in the top down head to shoulder. sing along my friend: what the fuck are we doing, can we even know each other. hello my friend, where are we now as you’re strolling across the template of middle-class flight to the ancestral closest closet where i always imagine if my great great grandfather didn’t strand on a small island but on the busiest port of the seventeenth century, nusantara would crawl inside my blood, your blood, give salute to the trade networks and the wind of the monsoon oh shit i’m talking not her-story again. let’s go back now: what’s up with us and our display of happiness and everyday life? don’t we want to be dirty, ugly, messy, chaos with our dishonesty? is it about the stakes of our life? how do we measure the grandiosity of perfection, of peacefulness, of calm when we laugh out loud without love? raging storm devours our confidence to live in courage, this sucks, shitty shitty bang bang;

Act III

honey, my baby, our preach of tiredness and exhaustion, the deepest part of our cowardice, does not make us beautiful in our darkness. you embrace the void and loneliness, i embody it—we are different but the same but not at all similar yet i’m below your aspiration of politeness and niceties, excuse me i want to vomit hurrrllll okay i’m done, where were we: can we just be with the weight of our poisonous beings, that we cannot move across in isolation, that together we cannot but feeling the pulse of the waste. ah yes yes you understand, you respect (laugh my heart off) only for you to do what the nicest people do in this world: saying the right words out of template. you’re doing it again, copying pasting the most superficial words out there, liked by thousands, re-uttered by hundreds, go go go power rangers wear your colorful pink mask and save this small world you call home; i want to be the monstrous bugs, poking against the civilized comforts with the stings of harsh reality. this facade and stairs of status and aesthetic—so boring i want to slit my throat and died in the hands of my enemy; what a dramatic mess, i know i know yet i am and there you are. okay okay alright alright. let’s start again: how are you? are we still a plot twisted?