Its nefarious arrogance, that's scaring grandparents, but its in the air and I'm airing it, as we are seeing all the signs, but just staring at them.

Somehow there is safety as an arian, where we are safely alien to  Americans made in sapient sanitariums, shooting you first for glaring at em.

So what if i'm Dolling up my delirium for a serum to cure them all.

I am awol, from my call to duty, recreating movies, for serial groupies, suiting up to slither a delivery of a soothing sour piece.

I am stalling to clean the secretions from hostel sheets from the screamers being eaten, by Cretans, with beaten dogs at bay, staring blank at the fanfare from a cage.

Im burning white sage, under pages of poetry anointed by a stoical spleen, tuning out the dreams, of lesser beings, until complete.

A zoo within a zoo within a zoo, i barely know you now

Barely know how, to know you as a model citizen with baller trimmins, fixins, and a life with others wives, in the rough diamonds of the bluff, before the door opens just enough, to look through and confirm what you already knew.

Love is the stuff dreams are made of.

And through you..

Im through.

Pleading, to seed the need for repentance and with reduced sentences, bleeding the demands on stances of chance, in costly cants.

I am convulsing in the congruence, in which I am influenced, by my afflictions of depictions in my head

I might be addicted to the dread of previously said decor, in my adorable horror show afloat, deplorably denoting the nopes of logic, and the slippery slopes of khangi, that spring off me when i'm coughing on my green tea.

You are wrong to stop me in my dislogic, dodging the narcotic mocking of toxic strong arming, in proxy alarms, setting barns ablaze.

I praise the poetry pushed on me, dauntingly haunting me with savant like ambiance, from the have nots, having things as far as the eyes can see.

I am not.

And in that moment, an unquenchable rage all but consumed me. The innocence he once clung to exposed to nothing but the remnants of the child he believed himself to be. To his dismay, he was anything but. He knew with each minute elapsed I had been counting the times he glanced between my

eyes.

lips.

eyes.

lips again.

He knew because I was doing the same, and we were hungry.

Common tactic I would use to lure in the next one. With ease foregoing any pleasantries for conviviality. “Let’s be friends.” “I quite like you.” Holding his chin, eyes tilted downward and dark, closer than he knows I should be. He lets me do it, and the best part—He doesn’t have the slightest premonition that this is no two-player game.

I am feeding.

These were some of the idiomatic expressions I relied on to make of sweet fruit, my meal.

I was always hungry.

Since childhood there were signs I am sure many ignored either out of apathetic disconcern with my well-being or, perhaps, fear I lacked such capacity to change. Those who’ve past tried were lost on me; what silly nostrums…

I, for one, truly do believe it could not have been different. I have always been an animal trapped in cage. Gnawing bars and biting at hands. The one you end up having to shoot out back in the end. “Sorry.” “We tried.”

That’s quite alright.

I often feel as if I exist within oscillating abstractions of myself. Concepts rather than an absolute self. Not transcendental or opulent, nor omnipotent or anything of the sort. Just an experience. A show. Entertainment. That is what I am to my core. Don’t bother trying to pick me apart. I really am nothing, and I have got nothing to hide. Every question you ask I will have a different answer to. There is nothing to interpret, and I am certainly not lying. In that moment you are, for whatever intent and purposes, experiencing the real “me.” Whatever implications that may have, I concede. But for all you religious people. That is how I feel.

I’ve learned that I do feel a lot. The glass pane I am viewing you through is a mirror. I see what you want. What could make you happy. What could make you laugh. What could make you cry. And I arrange my muscles, and thoughts, and mien accordingly. This has made me very good at detecting emotions I like: fear, humiliation, lust, excitement. These are good because I understand them, and often I quite enjoy feeling them. Know that if anything at all,

I am intentional.

I harbor vigorous disdain for bravado, charisma, observance, or whatever other adjacencies that may scratch my mirror, or force my hand at engaging on a human level. I do not want to be human. I want to experience it. Do not interrupt me.

It vexes me.

I get angry a lot. No one around me would describe me as an angry person but I am angry a lot. I get angry when I am told what to do, when one might suggest I am making the wrong choices, when people are concerned. They don’t know me. They do not know that I am not one of them. I am watching you. You are simply a player in a game that I am hedging bets on. Manipulating, or at least trying to do so. There is no second “self” in the room with you. Whatever you see is you, you are naked, sitting in front of me. And I am watching the way your skin wrinkles, eyes squint, bones smell, the heat your body emits when I touch you, or make a joke, or divulge an insecurity you did not know you had. In a nice way of course.

I am nice.

The center of the party really. The main attraction. The bellowing operatic voice at the dinner table. The hand yielding pints of cider and inciting bouts of laughter. A smile or touch of a hand. Grazing your thigh or waist. It was not an accident. Nothing I do is. Think about it.

Think about it all night.

I quite enjoy the idea of strangers touching themselves to the idea of me. That is why I curate every aesthetic choice to their wildest fantasies. My “identity” is conditional, reliant on whatever you need. I am very careful with these choices as to not cause upset. Or confusion. I manage my choices clearly. When I don’t: I lie. This is one of the few foolish mistakes. I would say it is most likely my biggest fault. However, I care not to change it. It suits me. Or whatever you think “me” is.

Let me tell you something. People are stupid. Stupid and simple. And that is the **** best thing about them.

This is why I make minimal and careful choices about my appearance. I choose inoffensive and agreeable alterations, rather than rash, permanent ones. I like to slip in and out of each character, my wardrobe “happy place” of persuasion and deceit. Small tattoos, neutral hair color, unpainted nails, my characters are solid, good, approachable, and likeable. My biggest failure is misjudging my crowd and failing to launch. If they don’t like me, they will not fall in love with me. And I will have one less toy to break. Belligerent child screeches and I die again.

Do it better next time—

Try harder—

Bleed for your audience—

Slit your wrists and bow—

Standing ovation—

Scene.