See Me
My recommendation? Read aloud for full effect. Things like this are meant to be choked out, wrung from your heart as you stand on the dimly lit stage of a smoky basement coffeehouse filled with utter strangers, strangers who don’t really care who you are, or what you feel, which makes them exactly like the subject, and therefore the perfect audience.
You come as no surprise, lit up before my eyes. Let me taste you. Let me tempt you. My love is a killer, baby. It burns down the misconstrued preconceptions. Battering against your stubborn nature, I learn to feel futility. Striving cold days, hot nights, I finally doubt my ability. Ineffectual as I am, I’m still knocking on your door. For the first time in my life, I actually feel like a whore, because you see me so. Your underestimation will become my bane, drive me inexplicably insane, as I further feed your harsh reality. Living my lie of double duality, I know well enough to keep my mouth shut. Scene one, take one, lights, camera, action, cut; hand over the award. I deserve it by now. I’d like to accept this award, on behalf of myself. I’d like to thank, myself, myself, and. . .oh yes, myself. What did you expect? You didn’t hear your name. I’m a wreck, and you’re the same, the same as all the rest. Yes. The name I didn’t call, is the most valid one of all. The words I bleed to say, you hear them every, fucking, day. And it doesn’t make a dent. Dull metal, oozing crimson, coppery scent, right before my eyes and done by hands it still doesn’t touch me, not like you do. But at least I see, more than I can say for you. I’m slashing my heart away with a dull razorblade, tearing off the pieces, handing them over to you, until my debt is paid. This ineffectual unending chase, this pitiful attempt to plead my case, it rends my mind to shreds. I find myself groping for verbal threads, vivid colors, beautiful hues, crimson, black, and bruising blues. I weave them together as best I can, with tear-stung eyes and trembling hand. I wrap them around myself, and let the weave soak it in, the sweat, the blood, the tears, the fluids of my sin. In that literary cage I shriek. I let it see me soft and weak. I show it all my sickening flaws, my own small fingers forming claws, to tear the demons from my heart. Each dancing devil plays its part, joining the mural I insist on building. I leave out all the glitter and gilding, forcing myself to be utterly true, mixing it into a muddy stew. I dip the brush in the brackish stuff and paint the duckling without the fluff, flesh and bone, pale and cold, every lie I’ve ever told, all the times my soul’s been sold, every innocent I crushed into my mold, remaking them for my purposes, to satisfy my fetished whims. I reveal my many surfaces, moods and masks, blazing lights and blackest dims. It all goes into the pot, stirred about, scent of rot. I splatter it across the page, helpless in my worshipping rage. It can be no other way, despite the words you hear me say, you just don’t listen, you just don’t know. And so, I take the stinking worded image, weeping eyes upon your visage, and hand it over. It’s all laid out, a sickening gout, of words, for your heart. In prayer of honesty making you mine, I commit a final, roaring, desperate act, blood on paper, vacuous black. Love me.
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