look straight through me - look at the nightmare. our past is but a dream that we're trying to escape
trying to evade to erase ourselves. look through me and see the advent of our obsessions. behold
your child
perfection - a rotting shell of atrophy
watching: crowds like crows
we furiously flock to tragedy; observe the hurt then hasten back to our peaceful
quiet nests of blasphemy
scapegoat: rather die and know
drag your failing body in tow - witnessing the wake
conflagrate the ready oil at the stake
binging: the culmination of purging what our lusts have borne. we hoarded all the world to find we'd lost any semblance of ourselves. this dying dance
i am not my own reflection. i am not myself
i am not myself. no
i am haunted by a non-existent lover: the spectre
the ghost
the soul-starving host. i am haunted by a non-existent lover
i was gifted with the vision
but cursed to be the witness. i'll be pale to match the walls and warped to trace the beams;
flushed to fit across the floor so you can step right over me. scouring this filthy slate these crooked bones they won't break straight -
cracked and splintered like our house
upended by that first summer squall
fading: so thin
you could snap me into the shape you need - gaunt enough to slide through that wedding dress. then stitch me to a fraying matrimony embalmed inside a never-ending ceremony. i am not my own reflection. i am not myself
i am not myself. no
i am haunted by a non-existent lover: the spectre
the ghost
the soul-starving host. i am haunted by a non-existent lover
i was gifted with the vision but cursed to be the witness