Pale, and drawn. Drawn,
with charcoal, that makes heavier
my eye lids, and my feet.
Who are you? I whisper… at my reflection in
the mirror that hides nothing. My face,
that is not mine.
I dance like I am a movie star,
but my arms and my legs don’t
move. The music scratches like an old record.
Where is my mind?
Who are you. What are you, with your
judgmental, opinionated self assured inadequacy?
When does this ride stop?
This ride, on it’s
rusted tracks, with cars
that rattle and squeal.
Who are you, underneath the
night time rage and the
days filled with calculated interactions where
everyone, is either too weak,
or not strong enough.
My bedside table, is evidence of my desires.
Candles. Cleaver. Machete. Hammers. Cable ties…
Police issue pepper spray, from 1984. Toxic by now.
Serrated torch, and a hockey stick with a nail
drilled into the end.
What is that when its all one big
messed up circle?
What comes after the curtains
close and all the
happy people who I judge
as weak and stupid go home?
Who am I? The empty souled executioner, with
very little but impatience and apathy, made more hideous
by my insistence on truth before self preservation?
Who am I to anyone?
Lender? Giver? taker? Nightmare?
That woman who will rip your jugular out
simply because you put two sugar’s in my coffee,
instead of two?
When people say that rage does not
make you feel better,
I want to show them that it does.
That kicking a dent in someones car,
or breaking someone’s nose.
I don’t hide.
Some days, I pray that they will come.
Try to snuff me out,
So that, I can put my foot on their faces and
get someone to take my photograph, caption:
I killed an animal.
Who am I? A quilt sewn together by people
I trusted? Images of torture and tears and the sounds of
That even the seasoned would never forget?
How much of me resides on that broken part where
It is okay to stab someone in the eye with a pen,
because they are superficial?
And how much of me resides in the fraction that will hold any
love, compassion and kindness?
I don’t do pity. I don’t take it and I don’t give it.
But if you stand in front of me with your soup bowl,
I will give you what you want.
I will tell you that I am sorry you are in pain.
I am sorry that your mind if your own worst enemy,
and I will tell you, that I am sorry that the world and the
people in it are monsters.
Because I am, genuinely sorry. But not for you.
For the injustuce and the incurable disease that
spreads like stink, and how it clings everyone.
Corruption should be considered an actual human emotion.
Like love, or regret.