Kieron Gillen's workblog
7/10/2004
"This was the last day I remember being at home:
My body was curled tight in the foetal position. I was stupidly scared. Depressingly, degradingly scared. I felt sick: sick of being sick. And this only redoubled my piss-streaks of anger. In the crevices of my mouth, traces of leftover vomit swum for attention among slivers of vodka. As I yawned, saliva dripped down my chin with aching slowness. Fuzzyheaded from bodily abuse and glowing with rage, I was backed into a corner with nowhere to go, with nothing left to hate but hate itself. I plucked at the plastic rose by my sodden pillow and passively, impassively sniffed, numbly unaware that I was trying to inhale what was essentially painted shit from a gumtree. I looked at the bruises on my thighs and smiled. I knew that there would still be those marks from him. His bruises. His beautiful bruises. Beautiful like him. In my dreams he spins swords around his head like a samurai.
Self-harm, to me, isn't an act of vanity. It's an act re-enlivening the deadening flow of modern life. Of course I KNOW that every cut isn't cute. It's a cure."
Guest-writer time over at
Panelbleed
. Old zine-kid chum Clare Falry writes about Transmetropolitan: Back on the Streets.
Kieron -
7/10/2004 02:24:00 PM
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