is the ultimate art
a man of little identity
in the image of a killer's demons.
I've lived another's hell,
and dreamt viciously of my own.
I threw my fist at the desk my face slept on.
My face disfigured under the pressure of misery and tears.
I speak through teeth. "You run away, because you're a coward."
Tears are streaming, unraveling into an ultimate truth.
My lungs prepare, taking in all the air around me.
The words scrape my throat:
"YOU'RE A COWARD!!!"
The message echoes through the house.
It's just her and my hatred.
My chin is soaked.
My expression falls into a flat frown.
The house is engulfed in silence.
I am alone.
"You've eyes that bleed violence" they tell me.
Sometimes I grip my bat so hard,
my chapped nails break into my skin.
I inhale my surroundings
and spit out the excess misery.
They glare at me
as if I were the spawn of Satan.
It would explain much if I was.
It's fitting; they all hate me anyways.
That's fine. 'Cuz I hate them too.
Not sure why everyone gives me the cold shoulder, though.
I roam the city vandalizing everything in sight,
maybe that's why.
I've been in every street fight that's come up in the last 13 years.
I've been begged to join in gangs. I don't like those.
Been on the streets since I was 7, back then I was spit on while begging for food.
Resorted to stealing everything in sight in order to survive.
Stabbed a kid for stealing my apple, then realized I had power.
I could defend myself.
Learned to steal from other homeless thieves like me,
got beat up and failed miserably the first hundred times.
Stole a bat at the age of 14.
My weapon of choice hasn't failed me since.
I spray paint shit everywhere I go, beat the shit out of anyone in my way.
Everything I "own" is stolen.
I'm a thief. A criminal. I survive.
People know it, they can smell it, I'm sure of it.
.. Though I've been treated the same since I was a kid..
Maybe I'm a demon of sorts.
So that's my name.
My name's Demon.
Lately I've been feeling someone's presence.
Maybe I spend too much time alone.
Like hell if I care, though. I don't need company.
It's not a ghost. It's someone out there.
It's a girl. She's real.
I used to hang with some alley cat; I'd feed her.
The presence reminds me of that cat.
Maybe she wants me to feed her.
Maybe she needs protection.
I love cloudy days.
Everyone is inside, safe, while I am outside, walking.
The wind violent and loud.
People hide away, and the world belongs to only a few people for a moment.
Cloudy days are like the night.
The people sleep, and the world outside
twists and contorts
and is reborn a new world.
There are barely any humans left.
It’s silent, it feels dangerous.
I like cloudy days.
I like the night.
When the world dies, and is reborn a new,
I am able to love myself. I am able to be myself in peace.
My true nature is released.
Change takes place.
I learn more, I grow faster.
I think I am a nocturnal being.
I think I was meant to live in the wind.
I rue the day I began to wonder,
"Who will be the first to insult my dead Father?"
I am nearly 20, and it's finally happened.
Though it would be easy to say
I am tempted to rip the boy's throat out,
The path is too smooth, too short;
to which I say:
I avoid as best as I can to take the shortest path,
not because I am stubborn, not because I want to prove anything,
but because the shortest path
-often filled with smooth stones and the scent of roses-
is often the wrong path.
You are tricked into feeling rewarded before realizing you've plunged deeper
into your selfishness.
With every decision there is the offer of the short path,
and with every short path taken,
you become smaller, and smaller,
until the world around you is but a forest of colossal leaves and giant insects.
The world will be too big to understand,
and you will be small, confused, and sad.
You might lie to yourself and say "But I am big! I see what many cannot; I see what YOU cannot see!"
And that is not correct, but it's alright.
Maybe you can die happier,
believing you have not been consumed by your choices,
believing you understand,
believing you are big.
Lie to yourself, it's alright.
If the short path is what you've chosen all this time,
then truth is not what you seek.
Lies should not be a problem to you,
and the neighbors
don't do anything.
I shut my eyes
and the neighbors
don't call the cops.
my body stops functioning properly
and it twists and contorts
and it brings pain
to my muscles
and I scream
but the neighbors don't do anything.
I warn mother
that I will kill her
and I don't want to
but one day I might do it
when I shut my eyes
I'll hurt her
and my body will tense up
my muscles will hurt
and I'll cry
and the neighbors
won't do anything about it.
The day has been engulfed in moonlight.
The clouds are consuming the sky;
the rain is violent.
My legs lead me into an abandoned shed.
the wind is cold. Cruel.
I need to rest.
"It's no use."
A familiar voice shatters my concentration.
A silhouette steps out of the shadows.
He stands for all I am against.
He's a risky mother fucker.
He had been aiding her in her quest to banish me.
I hate him.
"She's leaving as we speak.
No matter how fast you run, you won't catch her."
..No. It can't be.
He's buying her time, he must be bluffi-
"I can let you go if you want. You want to see for yourself?
You want to run, feel the rain slam into your skin,
and see how it gradually starts to pierce your flesh?"
He steps closer to me.
"You want to die trying? Die alone in a dirty street?
You're not human. Nobody can see you but her.
And you won't reach her.
You'll be alone.
You'll die alone.
You're going to die, kid.
She's going to kill you.
I can't breathe correctly.
My throat is closing.
My vision is blurry.
Tears are streaming down my cheeks. Fuck.
My knees give in.
Everything is suddenly so heavy..
"It can't be." I think to myself.
"She's strong enough to kill me now.
I was too late. I wasn't strong enough.
I couldn't get there on time.
..I'm going to die any minute, now."
I can't even blink.
I can't express emotion. It's like I forgot how to.
Tears are flooding my vision.
Suddenly everything is too alive.
So many memories..
"I don't hate you.
But she needs to grow. You need to leave.
You are her demon.
You are a part of her.
But she'll never be happy so long as you are alive.
You tie her down, you keep her weak.
All so you can stay alive.
..And even though..
part of you might actually love her.."
No. I know what he's going to say.
I'm not that kind of being.
I do love her. I do.
"..you're still a weak selfish asshole."
"NO!! I LOVE HER, I WANT HER TO BE HAPPY!!
I WANT HER TO BE SAFE!!"
I'm sobbing now.
He raises his voice.
"She's been kept safe for far too long, now, demon!
She wants out.
You keep trying to convince her that keeping you alive
is the only way she'll break out of that shell.
When in reality you are her shell.
You are what keeps her from being happy.
And when she comes to you in times of need,
you lie to her, telling her to do things that only fuel your existence.
You're a liar, demon.
You're selfish and weak.
and she knows that."
I can't feel my hands.
There is a pause.
I can see clear again.
I see his boots; he's standing there,
towering over me like some kind of god.
The words crawl up my throat,
barely escaping my lips:
I try to stand.
"I'm a selfish little shit, yeah."
I'm coughing blood.
I get dizzy as I try to maintain my balance.
"I did want her to be happy.
I wanted to keep her away from the humans,
I wanted to keep her safe.
I didn't want her to suffer anymore.
In the end..it was too much.
I didn't know what else to do to help her.
I tried giving her satisfaction in misery.
I gave her the gift of laughter whenever she was screaming.."
I clench my fists as hard as I could.
I felt myself getting weaker as I spoke.
"..whenever she was screaming in agonizing pain
over memories and betrayal!!
I gave her what I understood.
I gave her new urges, new needs,
new ways she could alleviate her pain.
..But it was too much.
She couldn't understand my gifts.
She feared them.
I gave too much. She started to fear me."
I cough again.
Blood stains the floorboards.
My eyes lock in the sight of this proof-
proof that soon I'll be gone.
"That's when you stepped in.
It was the perfect chance, wasn't it?
She was already beginning to see me as an obstacle.
All you needed to do was give that little push, didn't you?"
I look up at him.
He's serious, his head tilted back, relaxed.
He's glaring at me with eyes I've never seen before.
..It's intimidating, but I don't care.
I growl at him,
demanding an answer.
He didn't respond.
He lowered his head a bit, looked at my body.
No. No not yet, no."
My body is barely there.
My reason drowned with my screams.
My existence faded with my body.
My vision is struggling between the shed I stand in,
and complete blackness.
the image of that fucker
he probably feels accomplished.
I try as best as I can to stay.
"I can't go!
I love her! I do.
I.. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..
I'm sorry, fuck, I'm sorry..
Forgive me for keeping you down..
I see him walk back, letting himself be consumed by darkness,
like some legendary hero.
Like some fucking god.
I feel nothing of me left.
I'm torn between cursing at the guy and apologizing to her.
"Keep her safe." I manage to say.
He's probably gone.
I wonder if he heard me?
Maybe I shouldn't worry.
. . .
has yet to swell
such dangerous flowers?
How does one
How does one crush thought?
How does one betray the mind
in order to make space
for absolute wrongness?
How does one put aside all that is right
in order to sin,
In order to delve deeper into thoughts
society has advised us not to enjoy?
How does one find the courage
to banish a small portion of what is right
to make space
for what is wrong?
If truth is so sacred,
and truth knows no boundaries,
then why should we,
slaves and servants of this entity,
limit ourselves so?
Why should we let right and wrong enslave us,
hold us captive, preventing us from acting upon instinct?
If truth, the entity we respect without a second thought
is so sacred to us,
why do we limit ourselves with things of such little importance,
things like "right and wrong", things that are products of weak minds, weak souls?
If God is so powerful,
why should we limit ourselves so?
Why are we less than those we respect?
Why do we choose to be less?
Why do we limit ourselves?
Because we cannot be more than the Gods we create?
We cannot be more than the consequences we create?
We are the masters of the things we think limits us.
We are it's creators. We create truth. We create God.
We create the higher beings who have no limits.
And yet we, creators of such things, limit ourselves so.
We've limited ourselves for so long
that we think the glass wall is carved from stone.
For the wall to shatter,
it needn't be touched;
for the only power needed
I was diagnosed with something I can't remember the name of.
Right after I was told,
a nurse walked past me
she made no eye contact,
and she whispered
"Run away while you can."
I looked across the hall,
there were nurses preparing injections.
They were next to my room.
I walked away
I thought I did.
I was running
towards a window, too.
I just ran.
My body crushed against the thick glass.
It didn't break.
I almost fell.
The doctors started sprinting towards me.
I ran towards an exit.
It was close to the stubborn window.
I opened the door.
It was snowing.
I had no shoes.
It was cold.
I didn't know what to do.
observing the people in coats.
they would die
any time soon.
The doctors violently dragged me back inside.
I'm not sure why.
I wasn't struggling.
They put me back in my room,
where I waited patiently
to embrace my demon;
make love with it's desires,
I want to
let myself be enveloped
by it's existence.
The only reason
I refuse to do so
is because the existence
of such monsters
a portion of my sanity is lost.
That both excites and terrifies me.
"I'm watching you." He thought,
sliding the tip of his pencil
across the decaying wall.
"I'm watching all of you."
The pressure breaks the small twig.
Images of eyes condemned the broken palace.
Both guard and prisoner being cursed
by the child's anger.
It was a school of brats and pigs.
Just a huge fucking portrait of the world that would soon eat him alive.
His canvas. His hell.
His temporary world.
"Memento mori." He whispers,
in a language as dead as my hopes and dreams.
I laugh at his ignorance;
I'm as immortal as they come.
I'll live in memories and the grass,
I'll haunt the shit out of this place, out of your place,
out of this whole shit stained island.
I don't just fuckin' die-
I live forever.
I live just to drag you all down
when you won't be able to do the same to me.
Hell ain't gonna take me, either.
I'll be the scariest ghost you'll ever know of,
because I'll never find enough peace
in haunting all of you.
So I won't be going anywhere.
My burden is the gift I have carried since birth:
A criminal who loves me so;
he would claim the lives of everyone who has done me harm.
But I cannot let him out,
for He is I,
and I am Him.
If I am, He is not,
and once I am not, He is.
My story is that of two lovers who cannot be,
without the death of one.
“There was something about that house..” She said,
drifting into moments non-existent.
“That old house, with low, low ceilings.
..The german furniture..”
In the realm of this woman’s memories,
the sky was tinted crimson for the first time.
Rings of smoke embodied the souls of evil men.
Men who knew nothing of death, of the intricate concept of being.
The light engorging in his pupils,
an old man thinks:
“This year will be carved into the marble walls of history.”
The man’s statement echoed in the trees, in the strings of existence.
The woman, now part of the crimson sky that adorned her skin,
remembers the suffering in the way a man remembers a deceased lover’s smile.
Children, creatures and materials burned without color in her eyes.
Their voices muted, the crackling sounds replaced by Mozart,
“The Day of Madness”.
It was the least she could do to be safe in a shattering world;
to dream without the dangerous colors,
to fill a sudden void with familiar sounds,
with fragments of anything she considered to be home.
“I never went back.”
She returns from the pool of memories, dripping in truth and lies.
Her frown decorating her mouth.
“But I know
after the chaos,
the house was just a pile of ash.
A pile of ash and misery.”
I am not known.
I am kicked out of every restaurant.
I am scorned through the love I give.
I am given poison as meals;
I writhe in pain and they are amused.
My heart often forgets it's purpose,
I am in everyone's way.
I am my classmates' dinner,
a fallen petal burning under the sun.
I am honest and nothing,
a saddened wolf,
destroyed by sheep.
Under the skipping light of a tree,
In caves of snow and childhood
on rooftops decaying under the moonlight
That is where I exist
I am not known.
I am kicked out of every restaurant
I am scorned through the love I give
I am the son's daughter.
My island is a destructive one
I wish to eat away at it’s demons,
I wish to make this island alive.
I want to destroy it;
make it beautiful again.
The palm trees will shiver in fear, in pleasure.
They won’t know what hit ‘em.
The quivering mountains will spout words through tears.
“Why am I changing?”
And I will stand at the peak of love,
and scream back at the land:
”You are becoming free!!”
The dangers will crumble away, the soil will melt into itself,
giving birth to itself,
It will crave for moments suspended in time,
The Living Island.
And so it will become.
I killed by the millions.
"We are standing by a wishing well."
She was always so beautiful.
Her hair hung, and her voice rang in my veins.
She once told me that poetry was for the weak.
My smile bled, and I knew she was torn.
"Who has consumed you, maiden?"
I needed to know.
"Your body." She smiled.
This woman is dead.
And her death will be the birth of me.
I loved her with every inch of my being.
She loved me with every inch of her genitals.
I offered her the moon, the stars,
the magic that never came to be,
I offered her the sun, the clouds,
the person I never came to be.
"I'm wishing..", She spoke into the endless pit.
"I'm wishing..", the well spoke back to her.
I too, wished.
Nobody spoke back to me.
You are filling me.
You speak through teeth,
Understanding escapes me.
Is this an order..?
The letters reach me, carried in your breath.
Suddenly, I know.
"To sway..", I think.
My mind slips, and you take me.
"Where am I?" I think,
but the words do not form.
There is a universe creating itself around me.
The decaying white enveloped the swimming curtains;
they are suddenly so relevant..
As if they've become part of what is happening to me.
I can almost feel the planets forming in the space of this room.
There is a universe creating itself around me.
The light is changing.
The dark is engulfing itself, writhing.
Your voice finds me again.
I was becoming lost in myself, into my new universe.
You thrust, I comply.
I return to you.
My head falls back, and I feel my tongue unlearning language.
You dig into my ribcage.
And I return.
I return to you.
You become violently generous,
teaching me the language of a lost body,
the loss of control.
My mind is nowhere to be found,
I am lost, my hips are not obeying my mind.
The dark is spiraling slowly into me,
I can feel it's warmth pressing me into recklessness.
I manage to vocalize your name.
It's all I understand now-
Unbounded by your touch,
I lose myself into you.
I hear you speak.
"Where am I?" I finally ask.
And I return.
I return to you.
”You ain’t nothing in this town, kid.”
I slid my hands in my pockets, slouching
just like mother told me not to.
“You’ll be crushed by the others.
They’ll do things to you that you’ll never forget.
You ain’t never gonna live ‘em down.”
What this guy doesn’t know is
back where I was from,
I wasn’t anyone either.
“Best ‘o luck,
though luck ain’t savin' you here.”
His legs led him into the blinding sunset,
into the city of ruins and graffiti.
It was like fire.
A calm, consuming fire,
enveloping the dying buildings,
swallowing his silhouette.
I’ve yet to understand why my mother gave birth to me.
I ran away from her
away from everything I understood.
and now I’m lost
in a pile of the same shit
simply located elsewhere.
I don’t belong here.
I don’t belong anywhere.
The world is too beautiful for me,
and it’s inhabitants are the source
of all my misfortunes.
"Are you 'Doc'?"
His eyes scanned me.
He seemed curious, if anything.
"I am. How are you feeli-"
"Whe's my bat?"
It became clear he had no interest in others.
It also became excruciatingly clear that I, to him, was a higher being of some sort.
A person who was probably in charge.
"Your weapon has been confis-"
"Ih's not a weapon."
The interruption shocked me for a fraction of a second;
his eyes focused and angry, staring into me.
I was glad his bat was nowhere near him.
"I don't expect you to understand;
you are after all, just a child.
But people are dead. Their families are suffering.
People are suffering the consequences of your decision.
How does that make you fee-?"
"I hate you. I want my bat. Give me my bat."
The boy is angry. He is holding back, and I feel it in my bones.
I feel I should leave, but I never was one to trust my instincts.
I never felt I had any to begin with.
"Your weapon has been confisc-"
"IHS NOT A WEAPON! GIVE ME MY BAT!!
GIVE IT TO ME!! GIVE ME MY BAT!!!"
Okay. This is a tantrum. Should I call lieutenant?
I should be able to handle this. I was good enough to get this job, right?
I studied for this. I understand humans.
"GIVE ME MY BAT!! BAT!! GIVE IT TO MEE!!!"
He's kicking and barely in his chair anymore.
..Maybe a sedative would be necessary now?
No, he's not causing anyone harm though, right?
I mean I think so. And it's not like he-
"GIVE ME MY BAAAAAAAAAAT!!!!"
I can't do this. I don't understand anyone. I have no emotions.
My opinions are derived from books I was told to study. I'm a miserable robot.
I can't do my job. I can't understand a simple child. Why do I even think this way?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"Take a break, Doctor. We still have a few days 'till he can be set free."
The interruption distracted me from my misery.
I just stood there as two men took away the screaming child.
One of them looked at me with a disappointed twist of his neck, as if to say
'Damn doc, you fucked up.' "