What they don’t know is that I’m dying, dying from cigarettes,
dying from the arrogance, dying at the mercy of a ginormous
thumb pressed on ink, dying from the blackness of it all.
Death by their stupidity, a closed casket and a delicate soul,
a graceful little patch of Earth where I’ve buried myself a thousand
times is under the thick covers so my eyes cannot meet the
sun and endure another day. I suppose my entire existence
between is a groggy fog.
What they don’t know is that I still dream of him,
that murky merman washed up on the shores of
my barren beach, the bust and fizzle of waves. The thick
aroma he carried around, pleasant to the nose and a
desperation deep as a wishing well. This, too, is another
habit which kills me and it’s a delusion I’m well-aware
of when my fingers read his phantom moon belly like
braille bubbling beneath the skin.
What they don’t know is that I’m not blind, I can see
their despair like a fortune teller who reads palms slapped
across my face, but I’m indifferent. Asleep to their ways,
expecting the same results and constantly murdering my idea
of them. Yet, I always bring the ones who love me back
from the dead and try to my best to understand and change
them dearly; it’s a sacrifice of sanity which comes from
the necromancy of my heart.
What they don’t know is that for every time I’m placed
in the private box, I lock myself inside and imagine a world
where I put them in a dress, a shoe on a different foot, a walk
and trip down the stairs; it’s like my lover’s well: non-existent and
absolutely hollow. So I accumulate a bitterness, devour it like a
sword swallower and let the sweetness of agony kill me line by
line with each follicle of my hair fading as the weeks turn
to months and months turn to years.
What they don’t know is that I’m constantly reborn as I take
in the suffocation of fish and exhale my many spirits into the
candy-colored blue atmosphere. Who I am a minute ago has already
died and is now a lost echo in catacombs which always follow.
It’s as slow as a fingernail growing and can end quicker than the
sharp slice of a toenail clipper; everything is moderation, a waiting
game, a big I told you so, an unchanged face that doesn’t flinch
and I’ve blown out my enthusiasm.
What they really don’t know is that I’m a candle in the darkness
of their caves: a small flame which refuses to put itself out,
despite a comforting breeze. I could easily become snuffed, abandon
their primitive ways and travel down the hills as vanishing smoke.
But it’s too much to remove myself from all they’ve given and
it’s too much to rest in their rippled Valentines in Hades where
selfishness would certainly destroy them and leave all hope
floating through the currents of Styx.