attachments

i want to touch things. i see them before me, regular things in this hardware store up the street, the one owned by the gay handyman with the cool truck that says "yes i'm gay, but i can fix it better than you." ballsy. i would hire him. 

instead, i walk down an aisle of tools in his store. screwdrivers, hammers, saws, and i reach out to touch them, only to watch them attach themselves invisibly to my arms. a ball-peen hammer on the left, a phillips head screwdriver on the right. i can't feel the polished wood of the hammer's handle, nor the grooved plastic of the driver's. but they move as they should. i can use them. i detach them with minimal effort, throw them down and flee.

until i am in a bar with a mug attached to me without touching me. i can taste the beer i am drinking. i can feel the foam against my upper lip, but there's no touching the glass, no feeling that handle in my hand or the cool glass sweat against my palm. i use but can't touch. 

so i pull out my shotgun, hovercarryingly attached to my forearm, and walk through the deserted street with you at my side. we see the man hanging from the cross beam in the blown out building. the wind tugs at his shit stained pants, pushing his dead body in the spring chill. i aim, trying to shoot the rope and drop him free. we're too far away and the shot scatters too widely, shredding dead skin and nothing more. i felt no recoil. my attachments, the way i am attached, the non-attachment, the unfeeling, absorbs the shock of the shot. i feel nothing. i am all anguish and nothing more. 

you see this and tell me to sit on the edge of my bed. 

you hold the shotgun now.

you move it towards my mouth, and i open myself to accept the hard cock of metal into my throat. 

i see you feeling the trigger with your finger, and i hate you. i clamp down on the barrel with my teeth.

you squeeze. 

i die, brains attached to the walls and blankets and carpet.