Chameleon Face

Summer's dying fast. With it goes my bloodless fingers. I can't write anymore. Inspiration's scorched, talent's a burned-out house. Gaping windows make the eyes, dark holes leaking glass-shard tears.

"An eye for an eye as espied in the Bible,
My faith is lost to the burning of idols.
One less cross to press upon the survival
Of this lorded agony..."

She's leaving soon. When she goes, this place will cease to be a home. Too dramatic? I don't care. I thrive on dramatic thoughts, dramatic deeds, dramatic changes to the flesh and the fury nestled within. I scared someone I thought incapable of fear [save for the swelling of cold terror as it's found in situations of self-preservation]. It made me smile. It made my dark holes leak glass-shard tears. I wish he'd never told me. I wish I never knew. [Scared and lonely]. Oh, and the vine-feelings? Still here, still blooming, still uncurling thorns between my teeth. It's never, never. Never-ending? I suppose you could say that. It's time for me to lose. Wish the world would stop turning around. Wish I knew what I was supposed to feel, feel, feel numb. Look. Coherent sentences. Intelligible grammar. I must be feeling like being found out.

"No light nor reef,
No unsinkable romance keeps me
Safely from the stormy seas.
Now drowning, resounding...
Death-knells pound my dreams;
Unthinkable to dredge through this
Listless and lonely winter frieze..."

We are born like this. Hapless, helpless, blind babies suckling at the torrent of feelings afforded by our big brains. I am given to feelings. Given to the hurt and terror and sometimes-greatness of feelings. It's not what I took from you. It's not what I stole. Fuck. [I like that word]. I've decided against showing scars. If I showed, I would be known. No one knows me. I don't want anyone to know me. I don't want to be seen, to be heard, to be known. WAIT. I want to be heard. That's why we staged counter-protests against that people-haggling, abortion-denouncing, five-foot-aborted-fetus-sign-carrying son of a bitch, isn't it? That's why I counter-protested a gung-ho anti-abortion self-proclaimed pastor and his fanatic little church, isn't it? I argued until my throat was raw. I flaunted everything that inflamed them.

Take me all the way. I give up trying to remember. Forget I mentioned it.

I wait for you to take me under. Take me over. Here's the thing. I am breaking apart on the inside. I am losing my grip with reality. I am mixing synthetic things in a tumbler and taking them in silence. Just sleep. I promise I'll be there in the morning, despite my best efforts. Here's the thing. I am violently hurting myself with word-barbs. Here's the thing. I am shattered by everyone's best intentions. Can't you save me? Can't we talk about philosophy some more? Can't we read in the dark and [oh, this has got to stop. I am self-sufficient, but I pretend not to be.] Here's the thing. I AM [edit]. Wait. Scratch that. No one knows. Your poison girl is edgy, rusty, a wasted razorblade kiss, boy. If we love so that we know we're not alone, then I'm not alone, either. Don't doubt that. This throat's too full of insincerities to tell you outright...but you should know. I wrote for you. I tentatively reached out with a piece of paper comfort and hoped that you would be alright. I wanted to save you from that.

"There was nothing to fear. Nothing to doubt."