it's invisible, moves like oil on water
can't be seen, so I am told:
make me see. make me see.
BUT oh but then--!
when I pare the flesh and all see red
when I string crimson beads along scarlet threads
when I carve a facsimile of the wasteland in my mind onto my paperthin skin
(in a desperate attempt to feel something that isn't agony)
(to try and destroy one pain by causing another that is never as vicious)
(to trick my own physiology into giving me a fucking break for thirty seconds at least)
then they whisper, just above the noise--
then they whisper, hazy under the cacophony--
make up your mind --
this coagulating problem, it cannot be two things at once:
am I to howl at the stars and show you a map, a ladder
upwards into a crueler world that you will never truly see;
or would you rather I sewed my lips closed,
and let you suffer your grievous agony of not knowing?
(devils gnaw at the wings on my heels,
the accursed king averts his gaze with a wince,
Cocytus is but a step away from anytime --
but of course, you are suffering, in Elysium fair.
just close your eyes, my friend,
and I promise I will disappear.)
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