the hypocrite has left the building


turn down the hallway,
face west
quietly tiptoe past
the room where the mime sleeps
careful not to
make a sound on
the creaky wooden
floor, colder than the stare
of a girl whose heart has been broken,
slide into your chamber and lock the door
behind you
a fleeting glance at the mirror
remindful of the mask
still fixed in place
step into the bathroom
with a kitchen knife
starting in front of the ears
make small cuts
peeling off the flesh at the corner
ruby tears drip
sideways at an angle
down the calm, stainless steel
you wonder
how long has it been
since the angels first
made you real, sufferable
tearing a bit harder, less hesitant
cheekbones exposed
to the cold midnight draft
shadows hide in the spine
creeping
silently like a predator
into the bloodstream
as your painted tears bleed
darker shades
carmine, crimson, maroon,
and underneath
your reflection
there is a metal soul
aching to breathe
one last time
as the knife cuts deeper
more exact
across the bridge
	of your nose
the bridge between worlds
artifacts of memory
lost over the years
blanketed by the thunderclouds
of impatience, for
fear
of a knife pushing up under the eyes
the tears of blood
turn to
tears of joy
soaked skin like strawberry puree
exploding
from the pores
yet silent
as if a virus,
a whoring demon lurks
further inside the skull
but even
this is enough
to make do with destiny
to reveal the treasons
of all things social, global, personal;
and with your savage
soul still flowing
from its abductor,
you who raped life with a metal shaft
while time crept by
unnoticed,
you who beat its children with iron fists
while time leapt by
unheeded,
you who slip into your bed of spiders,
let them steal the remainder
of what is rightfully yours
and expose the real creature
that these fragile bones did shelter,
the inhuman beast
who in this tainted skin did welter,
you lie beside yourself
in the bloodless hope
that the almighty
shall take hold of your hand
while you walk through their doors
with broken vows,
a slandered
shadow of a doubt,
each until your very last word
as cursed as the day you were born.




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