We always ask why, but never search for the answers because we’re scared of the truth hitting us. Losing our pride and demeaning our ego.
We try so hard to make x+z equal something when we know it never will. You can’t get to z from x without passing through y.
I thought everything was okay until I saw you. My world shattered. The fumes tumbled out my mouth like acid reflux, spilling over my lips. I cried from the inside and tried to crawl over the spikes glinting towards my helpless self. I can’t hide when I want to. I have to be seen by all.
Don’t allow your face to betray you. Don’t show emotions.
Weakness is only an inch away. Flakes flicker light as your irises twist and stretch. In and out they pull, dragging, luring me into the dark abyss. A trap waits in the glorious dungeon of pupils staring into my own wide ones. What I want to see is not reflected in what is before me. A disgusting lump of fiction clothed in desire, truth, and satisfaction.
Bruised from the left common carotid to the apex from the sharp blows of your fantasy. They left purple patches as a reminder to never look through a cracked mirror.
Anos and Non always sat in the front a seat empty between them. Non had a girlfriend, but Anos, might have been single. They seemed perfect for each other. Strangers, but companions in a sense. They held the royal court in CRWT 045. No one knew it but me, the creep two rows behind. Spikes and tattoos, a shave to the side and a shave to the back, they complimented each other in a way only my twisted mind could see. There was a loss, but there was also something to gain. If only they could feel what I see, a delicious mesh of two seemingly perfect people to make one. Anos and Non. Non and Anos.
Tears are just salty, bitter pieces of mockery. They laugh and scorn you for weakness. They squeeze themselves out of you, creating a pounding of drums reverberating through the skull. They create the pulsing redness covering the whiteness of eyes. After they dry, marks of their footsteps pattern the cheeks. Tears leave you juiced and tired and helpless, useless, pained! Curse the tears that fall from love. They’re all lies and mockery bundled into salty wetness running down your face.
I wish they were gone. No ducts of tears at the sides of my eyes, no witness to failure.
Chauffeur breaks, talisman goods on a plate. Silver streaks of your memoir, the silkiness of luck. Where is danger in your eyes? The gleaming star of ferocity? The sun that shines in your irises as bright as can be. Licks of alcohol and a pinch of salt was all it took to bring you down, down the tunnel. The hole that twisted the frail ankle of you. Void. Darkness ensued, but only for a moment of silence it grew with determination to grow and be true! Oh how dreams of infatuation could flatter me so. Petals of sighs in the wind to your every breath. The death of an old beginning. The memoir that brought you back to life, a book filled with true lies of your world. How sick do you think we are, for your death to belittle me? How intricate the threads of deceit sown beautifully in the eye of the beholder. Luck has no meaning. Luck is as good as that duck about to get killed by a ruthless hunter with nothing but stupidity and a great aim going on for him. SQUAT, BAM! “There’s a great hit!” The old idiot said. Just like you. The memoir was the hunter as I, and many others, but more importantly, I was the duck. Your true lies seared the biggest organ on my body, through the woven folds, slipping between the ossified branches, right into my bloody pump.