i'm the monster hiding under my bed lurking just below the placid surface of my own personal Loch Ness and praying that i remain a legend of the local townspeople masquerading as those who call me friend and lover those perfectly content to take in my slow crumbling facade and name it history roman roads meandering across my features the ruts of those early onset wrinkles which threaten to out me to scream out my sickness a diagnosis of malevolence hiding in my tightly wound double helices the ladders i climb as though there were salvation waiting at the top though Sisyphus would understand my plight but more so comprehend my incessant pursuit of a false flag promise of redemption.
but i can't escape the prison of my skin my identity the crystal lattice of epidermis holding in the supernova of destruction and death the famine after my insatiable need consumes all nourishment for i'm too much too much need much too much malignancy spreading like a cancerous mass consuming and metabolizing all that is good and innocent.
do not extend to me your tendrils of sympathy of compassion look upon me as the condemned war criminal on the stand and the Hague chilled to immobility by the tales of my horror.
put me to death and think no more of the fallacy i perpetuated for decades spent offering silent pleas for intercession and yet unable to ever escape my transgressions which live below the surface in the deepest parts of me intricately woven into those essential parts of myself a tumor grown into my heart too close to the life-sustaining machinery for any to dare extraction.
but i could **** every part of me and one day i will as i pay and pay my way to salvation clad in sack cloth and my feet bare praying for smoldering coals to traverse searching for pain pain to wash me clean pain to fill the need for punishment because i've learned that even punishment which provides no redemption gives me the appearance of at least seeking that which i know i'll never have.
and after all these years do i really want it at all? would i forego any more pain? could i even believe that i have been forgiven? that my slate had truly been wiped clean?
even if everyone watched me be washed back to infantile innocence i would still know always my inner stain spread through my entrails like some perverse Rorschach test for reading by an oracle who could proclaim after my death that the beast had been slain and now they welcome the eternal kingdom of god.
but do not call me martyr.
do not send pilgrims to my grave do not consign me to Apocrypha do not dilute or contaminate the sacrosanct of some even if i always believe it was superstitious *******.
they believe it to be real to be holy and myself the human stain should never be near.
burn my bones and burn them again grind them to dust and jettison them to the remotest ends of the earth where no foot treads and my disease might not spread.
i flay the skin off my own bones so no one else must.
do not touch me
leperous disaster harbinger of the end of all things.
let me starve and rot the putrid scent of my decay finally dissolving the mask and in my death i can't even lower my face dead eyes can't look away but you couldn't know that's how they've always looked.