This is the voice of the face at the mouth at the heart of that woman
This is the tear of the smile in the chamber where she lost her soul
This is the hate from the love drawn deep in the well where she stores her hope
This is…

It is what I make it,
It is what she wills it to be
My nemesis, my lover, my judgment, my retribution

This will say that I do not care,
That I never did and I probably never will.

This will write that I do not love,
Nor hate, nor cry or laugh
Not in this life time,
            the one before nor the one after.

This will decide that I am
Haunted by hate,
            by my apathy,
            by my indifference.

This might touch you or loose you,
This might move you or change you,
But it cannot show you me
You will show you me
You will show me-me
My self, my disgust, my filth, my dirt
How?
In your eyes,
In how quickly you turn away when I walk by
In how soon you will forget my name
In how much you will disown
Me, disown my words, my feelings, my hurt.

And yet I am drawn
To still do this
To reach out, to play, to hurt, to maim

I am sadist,
Narcissus
Alone
Yet I still


Rock forth
Rock back
See in, see without
Look,
Touch,
Feel,
Yet what does it mean?
What do I invite?
Who am I now?

I do not know this person
Do not feel them

Think
Think
Think about man
Long, hard, hate
Think about life
Pain, alone, death
Think about love
Left, hurt, tears

Alone please
Shouldn’t be touched by me
Bad spirit
Bad heart

Do I know why this
            is interesting
            hand hurts now
            stop.