He says:

"The trouble with a mask is that it never changes."

And I think of you.
I think of your mask
And how it hasn't changed
And how it never will
According to Bukowski.

I wonder if you are real.
Really, actually, truly real.
I wonder if you are just a mask.
I wonder if you are hollow.

The most addictive things
Are the poisons we create ourselves.
You, then, must be man-made.
You are shoddily me-made.

Every sweet word and sensation
Was created in my fantasy.
I projected complex emotions
Onto your lifeless mask.

You will never change.
You will never change.
You will never change.
You are just a mask

And Bukowski is warning me from his grave.

I
Just
Want
This
Story
To
End.

Let's bail on the film during intermission <3

Speak to me
Say something
Let me breathe

But you stay
All quiet
"Unaware"

Never there
When asked for
Elusive

Little boy
Little girl
Great big world

It eats us
Spits us out
We are weak

But we look
As if we
Might be strong

Speak to me
Say something
Let me breathe

For days past
For touch
For your fingers
And lips
And all the things
Out of my reach
For steak
And potatoes
And strong drink
For God's sake
For tomorrow
For us to exist together
And cease
The games
For life
For death
For salt
And sugar
And blood
And sweat
And tears

For you <3

I find myself
Running fingertips
Over the places on my neck
That you've tasted

Dreaming up those times
As solid as I can make them
To feel the rush again
Of your weight against me

Do you remember
How I taste?
Do you lie awake at night
Sweating out the details?

Does your heart still pound
Heavy and strong in your chest
For that love
You still don't comprehend?

I'll tease myself
The way you do
Only touching
For fleeting seconds

I'll think of you
And find release
Faster than you'd think
And it's like a drug

When I
Think about you
I touch
Myself

Sometimes
I wish to keep you
Like a bug
In a jar
With holes in the lid
And a thin layer of soil
And sticks and leaves
For you to climb on
But then I remember
How all
My childhood bugs
Died within hours
And I change my mind

I'm too fast
And too forward
For most people
And most places

Too honest
And too crazy
For your liking
And your spaces

I'm still trying
And still hoping
That you'll adjust
And you'll take me

But too hopeful
And too desperate
Is all you see
And all they see

Words and words and words
And not a single one
Fits

Ineffable

But neither does that one
Because it's a word
And you're a vision
And I'm pathetic

Ineffable

As if you meant it
But you run and hide
When the lights come on
You were never there

Ineffable

I'll shut up for now
I don't think
You'll mind

You remember
So many things
I wonder
If you remember

How

I

Taste

A woman has a certain right to her delusions. Her dolls come to life, and they talk to her. They tell her that there is a world of unending beauty. They tell her that there is a prince there, and that he loves her. This prince is her lover.
She has a certain right to choose her lover. To choose that prince to place beside her in the dollhouse, on the never-empty throne. She has a certain right to love him in her Candyland.
The prince has no flaws that would offend the spirit of a woman. The prince is unapologetically sensual. The prince is to be made a king by the power of a lover's inspiration. She is that lover who will make him king, in her dollhouse. In her Neverland.
She knows he isn't real, deep down. He is a reflection of a human man on the pure water's surface. Perfect for a dollhouse. The human man is danger. The sensual human man is death. She can only hold her breath so long, and she will never come up for air if he keeps her. She dies happily-ever-after in her mind, but is often left a bitter specter. Let her have her mind, her garden, her delusion.
Let her have the visions of an unending, beautiful together. Let her have the dreams of making love underwater. Let her stare through him to the shiny king on the throne. Let there be much hot blood spilled.
He is no prince, but a king already. He reigns over a kingdom of hidden things. They would burn her hands and thighs with volatile reactions, she can never know them. She sees them, and longs to place them in her lap and admire their heat. She would scar herself for the beautiful pain of the fire of his passions.

And so, I'm not so much silly as I am female. I'm not so much crazy as I am woman. I am plagued by my need for fire and my lust for pain. How could I ever be expected to sit and stare at walls? There is no oxygen in this box, and so there can be no fire!
The little throne in my dollhouse was burned to ashes. I wanted no king, nor did I wish to rule. I only longed to be touched and handled. No queen can rule in a state of hysterics. What would the people make of my hands and thighs?
I have a certain right to choose my lover. I have a certain right to burn down room after room in the dollhouse with the flames of my momentary hysteria. I **** the marrow of my lover's passion and leave him a husk, for he often hasn't much. I am a witch, draining the blood from him with every movement of my hips, using his essence in rituals much too taboo for discussion, eating whatever remains. I do it all in my dollhouse.

There is a Wild King. I fear him tremendously. The Wild King has the power to overthrow the pile of ashes. He is an unstoppable force, and I am merely painted as an immovable object.
In my dreams, he is a wolf, I am a lamb. He grabs my throat with determined jaws and thrashes nearly all life from me. I no longer move, yet I still breathe as he finds the softest part of my abdomen to start his feast. I feel every piece taken, and think "yes, yes..."
My fear of the Wild King is eclipsed only by my lust for him. To be a lamb for his slaughter is my only fantasy. To be his feast night after night is my only desire. The sensual human man is the sweetest death, and I can only hope  to taste it.
Wild King! I'd bet he tastes of wild strawberries, sweet with a kiss of tartness. He is passion and tenderness in tandem. He is a heat that melts the resolve slowly, like chocolate. A witch such as myself could never dream of claiming such power.
I wait for the Wild King in my scorched dollhouse. At night, I can hear him howl and sing. Sometimes I imagine he is closer than the night before. Let me have my delusion. He is not at all mine, but I pretend I could have him. My greatest fear. My only lover. The only lover I dare not choose.

To watch him is to hunt him
To wait for the precise moment
That I will choose
Not to pounce

To watch him is to bathe in him
To let his presence cleanse me
Of all the impurities
Found in control

To watch him is to shout to him
To yell out with my eyes and soul
Oh yes, we're fallin' down
So ******' help me up

To watch him is to devour him
To taste bits of well-aged memories
And grow mad at the flavor
And swallow them whole

To watch him is to love him
To fear him, trembling and forlorn
Never tell him, never tell him
Fearlessly watch him

Tell him anyway