Really every lie

does need a decent wardrobe --


of nice eloquence.

Here you are.
Running and running,
you stand here at a border.
One of vessel and mind.
  
Oh, mirrored child!
How you have grown!
Still...
too tame, too wild.

A paper without a pen.
A frown devoid of rage.
Your words are vibrant.
Your value is undefined.

Static as a variable,
dynamic as an organism.
You have friendly masks,
yet volatile insides.

A friend?
A foe?
Brutality or mercy?
It is time to choose.

Oh, my best friend...
my oldest enemy...
how do you do?

They see it not.
Their eyes open to me,
yet their heart remains closed.

My mind a web of ideas,
my heart a compass.

Warps of mercy and construction,
wefts of brutality and destruction,
how to share this tapestry?

Words?
Wounds?
No methods appear.
Am I to be silent?
What to say?

Let us stay a little while,
midst the light and bloodied bile,
let us see what we can see
with our deceiving eyes.

The mother feeds their child,
and the scorching sun rises.
The lakes glisten like stars
and the birds sing again.

They're playing soccer.
And talking.
And having fun.
With eachother.

The plants move and twist,
and the tide ebbs and flows.
The grass is emerald.

They invite you in.
It just isn't for you.
If only it was.

The sky is an ocean of blue.
The birds fly like scattered sand.
  
You start doing your homework.

You like it.
You love it.
It's great.

It's fun.
It's so, so fun!
So fun...
that tears run down.

Yet your eyes are hollow.
Your head is full of soot.
Why?

A prion.
A parasite.
A writhing mass.

It is woven into one,
not by needle,
nor machine,
but by absence.

It is kind.
It destroys the mind.
It seeks a way.
Yet hated it remains.

Silently within,
pulsating with darkness,
twisting with curiosity,
it craves mercy.

A decay and a rot,
one not of flesh and bone.
This is one of isolation,
this is being alone.

within my loom of ribs
the warps and wefts watch
as i insert bloodied strings
expecting them
to ask me
if im ok.

They don't.

you don’t talk
to me

you make it
hard to see

it takes
two to tango

and i’m tired
of playing
guesswork

that’s got me
all tangled up
and confused.

so when you
showed up

the last time
at my door

and told me
it wasn’t meant
to be

i was certain,
for sure,
that nothing was
wrong.

but you led me
on,

and said it was
only for
your benefit

and nothing more.

now i’m ripping
the pages from this
book

because i’m
just sick of it all,

sick of writing
chapters and

sick of falling
in love.

i don’t wanna
be lonely forever

but if that’s what
it takes to heal,

then i’m so
over it—

and this time,
i want something
real.

I just know I'm weak.
And now I know that
and that it's not that unusual,
I now know it better.
Like when you get to know
someone in your life better.
Like your dad - adult to adult
and you find words
that better describe him
and in describing,
you find understanding.
So it's like that.
And now that I know it better
(the weak bit),
I find that I can bear it
better
just like my dad before me.