Yo, I don't feel okay
is that okay with you?
I'll back off, *******, do what I have to do
to make sure this sleepy Sunday goes swell for you.
But your actions are like rug burns,
not hurting for long--but still hurting

  I?
  I twisted your arm?
  You're not mad about that!
  Are you?
  You are?
  Give me your skin so I can fold it!
  Feeling your wrinkles under my calloused hands,
  it won't hurt, I swear!
  A lesson for you is what I bear.

I let this happen for one hundred years
until my pale flesh turned purple,
and my eyes blackened into squares as I saw Nyarlathotep slip out of your three tongues.
You begged for an apology I couldn't muster,
and in turn chafed your own foolish forgiveness in place of mine.

I paint over
the true colors
that they show me.
But they blend
and I no longer know
what color it is.
It's a mix
and that is how
mixed signals are created.
They are not made by them.
They are made by you.