“You probably shouldn’t use that essay. It’s a little racist.”
“That’s the point.”
“Maybe don’t touch on the whole molestation thing. It doesn’t feel sincere.”
“But I want to.”
There was a lot of thought that went in to writing I Can’t Feel My Face. This has been the first venture in my writing in which I have not hidden behind a makeshift veil of abstract imagery. I used to use poetic devices to get my point across without giving too much of myself away. In writing these essays, I felt it was time to truly come clean.
I can beat around the bush all I want to, but a pretty poem about amphetamine clarity will never depict the hellish morning after. I can glamorize it with photos of my ribcage and assorted magazine tears, but the truth is that I spent the better half of my teenage years with my head in a toilet. Writing about the sound of fireworks will never express the feeling of hearing a hollow gunshot in late July just moments after telling my father to kill himself.
I Can’t Feel My Face is my apology. Sort of. At the very least, it’s the best I can do for now— an unflinching description of what went down. It’s my relationship with my father. It’s late night cocaine and cheap champagne. It’s Klonopin to ease my nerves.
In the weeks before ordering the pre-release copies of the book, I was overcome with a foreign sense of sadness— guilt, I guess it’s called. I thought immediately of my family— a distant, hazy figure in the back of my mind that I still manage to recognize as a reality to this day. I thought of what this book would do to them, with its vulgar and apathetic depiction of my father’s death and its halfhearted approach to self-realization.
But, with all due sincerity, this book is not for them. It is for everyone else. Anyone who has ever felt the highest when sinking low. Anyone who has ever felt the strongest when breaking down. Anyone who has ever felt the most alive when dying.
This book is an ode to losing it all. This book is a goodbye to my father. A see-you-later to all of my late-night friends. This book is a farewell.
“i try to find a sense of comfort in my immortality. but i know that i can’t. forever is a long time. sixteen going on extinct. and i laugh at the thought of what youth can do to a person. i giggle at the feeling of the world at my feet. and i wait some more.”—Kriskidd (via decomposingyouth)
“and i’m already fucked for good. and don’t tell me that time heals, or give me any of the metaphysical, emotional self help bullshit, because i already pay my therapist enough to do it herself. this is me now. and this is me for the rest of my life. this is me. because of him. and i fucking hate him for it.”—KrisKidd (via decomposingyouth)
“He’s got a face that says “born in the 90’s.” A liver that says “born in the 80’s.” And a pair of lungs that says “born in the 70’s.” He’s got no morality, low mortality. He’s a young gun, got burnt lungs and a long tongue. He’s here to tear your world apart.”—kriskidd (via catch-17)
“Terrible people doing terrible things. This shit is all my fault, and I don’t care. Honestly, I’m shallow. Water, dark and murky with unintentional indifference and rage. Raw and passionate; stale like my cigarettes. I’ve got cavities in my mouth that are constantly out to remind me that I am young and I am stupid. “You’re dying!” They say, and it gets louder every time, but I’ve got nothing to say, and I’ve got thousands of strangers who are dying to listen. They crowd empty streets, and they’re dizzying, spinning. and I’ve never been all that great with human interaction, so I stumble; heavy footed, light headed. and I land with one foot in the gutter and one foot in the gold. And if I think hard enough about it, I’m pretty sure that I could find a deliriously metaphorical sentence to sleep adjacent to my previous one. But i can’t, so gutter wash and acid rain, city filth burns my skin and I’d really love to say that this is the end for me, but I’m far too good at faking intelligence to convince myself that it is. I haven’t felt sorry enough yet. Sorry enough for age fifteen. For being a liferuiner, a sinner and a whore. I never have been sorry enough for killing my father. I haven’t been turned far enough inside out yet. I haven’t felt the full weight of the world on my shoulders and I haven’t experienced a fraction of the pain and embarrassment I’ve put out into this great big white world. So, the cavity’s call increases with age, and as my teeth continue to rot to the beat of the summer heat, they remind me that I am a lack of nutritional value. I am empty calories and I’m no good for you. “You’re young and you’re stupid and you’re self absorbed and you’re dying.” They say. and I let them.”—Kriss Kidd “Cavity’s Call” (via alansassby-is-my-soulanmial)
Young lust is taut skin at 12:49am, and a whimpering pressure that pulls at curtains and breaks them free from their rods. Hard kisses. Hot like a bonfire in the summer, fast like a speeding train. Moving.
Young love is soft skin at 3:02am, and a quiet kiss on the cheek that won’t quite be remembered in the morning. Hazy kisses. Fuzzy like flannel sheets in the winter, warm like legs intertwined. Sleeping.
“most of the time I feel like a really pilled up Snow White rolling around in the hood with seven drug-dealing dwarves—which, I don’t know… these things are never really as fun as they sound like they’d be.”—Kris Kidd (via icantthinkofaurl965)