Pica

I like the smell of leaded petrol, pure, unadulterated, the destructive euphoria of which intoxicates me innocently unaware that it has forsaken me; before I could realize that olfaction influences gustation and addiction is not a hoax, I had become a car that wouldn't run without petrol; like a plant that requires photoperiod- except my plant overdosed on sunlight. But I drank all my water yesterday, and choked and coughed to drink the black gold again. I like to see the impasto yellow, the paint that's toxified by lead, the real natural joy, the drug I need, like a rat gnawing on my living skin; we fail at realizing that the eyes, sometimes, have it, to activate the taste buds; I had become the kalsomine, deathly pale without some paint- perhaps, a thick layer of it. But I tried gobbling up real food last night I couldn't gulp it down my gullet, because my throat had inflamed that wouldn't let me eat anything, but the paint. I am faded, and wasted, moreover tired, my muscles spasm one after the other, you could see the burton line on my gums while I uttered incomplete sentences whose sounds my pinna refused to collect, my senses have deserted me- you put one finger up and I see three, I bite my own tongue and my teeth grind each other- while pieces of my brain explode, but my skull opposes their projectile; yet, there's enough lead left to score. The doctor gives me some popcorn to eat, and makes a list of the things I shouldn't eat- that consisted of all the things I love to eat, and another list of the things I must eat- all the things I choke on. I tell him about my sore fauces- my voice breaking, trembling, doing its damnedest to sound stern- and with a well-crafted professional voice, he tells me how he would starve me if I ate what should not be eaten; so I go home and self-medicate, with more petrol and some more paint.