I, Mercury

Kai sends me a new demo tape and follows up with a phone call asking me if I’ve heard from Damia. No, I tell him, she’s been quiet for a couple weeks. The phone rings out and she doesn’t reply to messages. And no, I haven’t called the police, coz I’m holding onto the last message she sent me. She’ll be away for a month, followed by an all caps, DO NOT WORRY. Which, inevitably, leaves me drowning in the stuff.

I tell him I’ve been coping by reading unsolicited phallic-phone-poetry pinged to me through dating apps. 

dip it low, 

lick, and 

suck my dick

Kai counts the syllables speculating it’s a haiku. It reminds me of a pearl, I say, grit jabbing into the soft flesh of my thumb wanting to become a pretty, gleaming bead.

I, Mercury

Damia wants more Kai. Yeah, Kai, that guy I told you about who lives to get high. I don’t want her to get hurt, but she’s insistent she’s in love. So is he, I tell her, with alcohol. She won’t listen, and I hate mothering, so our conversation stalls.

Where do these soul wounds come from that leave us inebriated to survive? Searching for dopamine highs from work, porn, alcohol, heroine, shopping, food… My bank says it’s concerned and has partnered with Mental Health UK. I ask Damia if she thinks they could help out, help out with Kai?

Thanks for reminding me, says Damia grimacing, I need, need, to pay my credit card today.