I Realization

Chopping and stitching. Revision? Relapse? Return.

I Realization

Time sleeps. A liquid stranger swims in the foggy mirror. A sleek dark thought with Angelina Jolie eyes and barracuda teeth.

Many days I believed that I was going to be eaten by my own imagery; swallowed by the brazen colors of an alien sunset. If I fell through a shadow door, and slid into the other side of night, who would come to rescue me?

The dream people I concoct from vowels and consonants? The scream steeple god, whom I've handcrafted to roam diseased bowels and shifty continents? Smoky wyverns I needled from beneath my fingernails?

No.

Certainly not the concrete cretins, lapping dead whispers from their owners’ manuals, and looking for their lost souls in self help forests of cotton candy smooches and baby powder pats. They exiled me from their precious sanity before I could even turn to run from the frozen flames I saw sleeping in their fishy eyes; pumped my sub dermal starlight from the mother ship like stagnated bilge water. I am a basement-chained deformity of the human race. Not to be seen; only muttered about in hushed tales of tragedy, and typed into the black veins of universal discontent by lonely habitual masturbators with anonymous names, and cartoon monster avatars.

Salvation is a lie that should be saved for amateurs. Alive and doomed are Siamese synonyms.

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[Emily B]

this was a good day for words like these