LALAKI

Oral Fixation

June 1st, 2019
9:55 PM
"JAVIERTO RESIDENCE"

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A certain hunger lingered in my mouth; the hunger wasn't that of consumption or some drive to fill my intestines with as much junk as possible; but taste. I wanted to taste something sweet, something salty, something sour, and then something savory. I wanted to taste all the flavors in my mouth for it had felt dry; barren even like a Sahara desert, noiseless and unattended plain and uninspired.

One minute I decided to grab three Oreos, the next minute I was on my fridge eating almost everything; from leftovers of fast food, biscuits, half-eaten bags of potato chips with laundry clips attached to them, and condiment packets. I wasn't looking to be full. I just wanted something. Something inside my mouth, a spark, a light, and a texture. I scoped for everything in my fridge, cough syrup, soft drinks, leftover liquor, fruit juice, and mouthwash, I didn't care for appetite for all I wanted was taste. This animalistic yearning of taste soon evolved into a palette-driven curiosity as I began to mix snacks with different condiments and taste them if they came out great. I mixed Nutella and a bag of Pringle's chips, then cornflakes orange juice, and maple syrup on a cold pizza. They all came out great, they had the flavors I wanted, and I couldn't stop mixing and making combinations. I was too focused on making the perfect flavor, too focused that I ignored the fact that I was still in my work clothes and I'd created a collage of mess in the kitchen.

Liquor bottles, scrambled and cracked, with ketchup bottles, coke bottles, and wrappers of half-eaten chips and chocolate wrappers, cans of tuna mixed with other cans of instant meals. They all came together on the ground in random orders; my kitchen floor had looked like a painter's wooden palette a black-grayish bluish and reddish mixture of various meals and fluids splattered across the kitchen tiles. They reminded me of a Jackson Pollock painting I saw as a child with my brother. Nonetheless, I still kept devouring. I couldn't stop and I couldn't care, at this rate, I never wanted to stop eating. I just wanted to chew on something, I wanted it to do something rather than nothing.

Eventually, I stopped, for my mouth got tired; as for the accumulated filth and trash that I've tossed around and consumed. I grabbed two plastic garbage bags and dumped everything in there.

To the trash, they go.

Out of sight, out of mind. Out of my attention and perception. No longer there to bother me, I spent the next forty minutes mopping the floor and spraying aerosol sprays aggressively. As I scrubbed the floor with every strength of my body, projecting every frustration and shame out of my body to the task at hand, I felt like a dog overall, I felt like scolding myself like a mother to a child or a teacher to its pupil to sit on the air or be put in a corner; I try to remember my thought process during my awesome feast at the fridge in attempts to rationalize or explain to myself what was right and what was wrong, what was valid or what needed being addressed; but a part of me wants to move on. I wanted to shut it out and cast it out, like extinguishing fire from a candle by pinching it or a wave washing over heaps of sand on the beach; lost in the waves mixed and forgotten completely.

I decided to not give it much thought and move on to what remained of my night. I undressed and headed to the bathroom; I filled a tub with hot water and began to undress far from the mirror because I hated seeing my body every time I finished showering or a warm bath

My body is of non-existence
My body is unreality.

I keep telling myself, I can't help but feel a passionate hatred, a burning infernal spite accompanied by a nail-biting fear. A fear of showing or exhibiting my form because of how mangled I look like, the hair, the fat, and the accumulative rashes throughout the years. As much as possible I only like seeing myself clothed for the thought of being naked is like murder for me, to be rid of dignity. To be reminded of the abuse that I've done for years and how powerless I feel. My vice and shame rolled up to one. The flesh I wear is not of mine but of my impulses, vices, and hunger that I've abused for so long.