A Bitterness

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--
      histrionicist
then they whisper, hazy under the cacophony--
      wanted reaction

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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