Laughter
When does laughter parallel tears? Or rather, when does it coincide with a scream? There comes a point, when there just isn’t a difference anymore. I think, that that is where this was born. . .
Laughter, raucous, blatantly harsh, cutting ragged gashes in the midnight air, crackles forth like the jagged convulsions of insanity’s throttling grip. How can that maddening, maddened noise emerge from my lips, so soft and unimpressive as they are? How can that be me? The question is merely symptomatic of the nauseatingly typical denial I have encased myself in. It chokes me. I gag on the fruits of my own sick twist. Let me be. Denial is fragile, as is control, and the laughter rings and echoes, heavy shockwaves pounding against already crumbling defenses; battering them to icicle dust which clogs my nose and mouth, suffocating, smothering, asphyxiating; and ravaging shards to lacerate my already bruising flesh, sickly pallor now painted and improved by multitudinous shades of blacks, purples, blues, layering over the yellowed skin of healing hematomas and the fading crimson of old contusions. Flesh splits as shards of my frigid barrier pierce, slice, gouge, and fresher crimson joins the dance. A gout, a spurt, brought from its home into greater form, more suiting fray, sprays in a fan, spattering across the black and blue white canvas of this macabre masterpiece I have become, sick and grotesque as the heart mind soul held therein, nauseating reflection of mirrored truth of being. Let me be, so in as is so out. So fitting. So suited. Perfection achieved. Release. Forgiveness. Absolution. If only it could ever be enough.
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