Miss Kitch: An Artisan In Acid

Dear Georgie, 

 As I write this, I can still smell the weed you left in the bathroom. Your jeans are on my bed and your bra is on my pillow. I once asked you why you liked me and you said because. 

 I remember the first day we met. I remember that moment when you photographed my guitar and planted a kiss on my cheek. They said you found me cute and alone. To you, I was the one that kept them together. 

 I remember the night we shared acid. I remember telling you about my pipe dreams of fame and fortune and peace and love. I remember when you kissed me. I remember when you said you loved me.

 You were more than a one-night fling, Georgie. Nights passed when I could do nothing else but think of what I had done; of how stupid I had been to let you go. But did I really?

  I remember when you told me about your quest. Your quest to be the jack of a thousand arts. “Life is more than just chemical reactions and acid,” you said. “Life is art… life is expression… life is acid.” I remember wondering whether you were high or whether you spoke truth. Whether you were trying to tell me a story but had failed…

 But then I saw the powder in the sink and you soaking in your blood.

 I remember you were stick-thin, Georgie. Your eyes were bloodshot, your face pale. Money was scarce so you hardly ate. I remember offering you food. I remember you refuse.

  Nights came and went. Time passed us by, and yet you continued to soak in what was to become that which you nicknamed your ‘destiny’.

    As I write this, they lower the hearse. Flower children shed genuine tears and sing Hindi songs of grief. Hairy chests are nowhere to be found. The first snowflake falls. 

“Do it.”

   I place Candy on top of you. I remember how you called her my one true love. I remember how you said no one else mattered to me but her. 

 Well, you were wrong, Georgie. 

 You were wrong.

 

Signed,

Mr. Gibson 

 

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