Bombard me with images
Promise to make me complete
Shape my eyes
Contour my cheeks
Highlight my lips
Make me over
Make me complete
Paper over my scars
Discard my pain
Replace my thoughts
Invade my brain
It’s all too easy to erase
Wake up thirty years later
Dying by minutes
Past the sell by date
No road forward but out
Take up the razor
As in youth
Faint lines promise relief
Trapped by this stagnant culture
Burn it down
Burn it down
We all fall
I hate keeping secrets. Even lies by omission hurt.
I spent a portion of my youth on secrets. On lies. It almost killed me. It came close. At the end, all I had was money, scars, and grey hair. The money is gone. The scars are mostly faded. The grey hair stayed. And a deep abiding pain that accompanies lies.
I spent years clawing out of various closets. Sexuality, society, BDSM. And at the end of it, I found peace.
But still people want me to hide. To be discreet. To say it’s no one’s business but ours.
But let me tell you. It may be no one’s business but ours, but it’s on them to turn their heads. Hiding is lying. Discretion is fine, but it should not stop a kiss or a hug or holding hands. If it does then that’s fear.
Just because I can hide or lie; Because I practiced for years, doesn’t mean I enjoy it. I loathe it.
I understand why hiding may be necessary. If life or liberty is on the line. But if not? It’s not worth the cost.
And sometimes, even life and liberty are not enough. We should be who we are. Shout it from the rooftops. And to those that would silence us, let them reap the consequences. Let them fear.
I said I didn’t like lying. I didn’t say I’d forgotten my past.
Perhaps I prefer a layer of abstraction to my words because they feel like pins breaking through the veins
poking out at odd angles
painful but embarrassing
painful but then you’ll notice me and hiding is easier when it’s a storm and not me that’s crying
perhaps it’s easier because these words are only sometimes mine and other times are the unbroken scream that lives in my chest and stops just short of my throat because men don’t break down and cry
because everything has to be in control or she might not love me
because sleep eludes me and screams at 3am will bring sirens and questions
Perhaps I just need to be distant because weaing the razorblade straight jacket no longer fits
but its thin slices fit so easily into my scars
who would know the difference
perhaps I’m just tried and tired of being vulnerable and need that distance to lie to myself a little bit longer
a lie I’m not allowed to speak to others so I tell them to myself.
“I am loved” I say when I mean I want to die.
I am loved, when I mean why doesn’t she see me
I am loved when I mean Why can’t I just say what I mean?
Love is my lie, it keeps me going, keeps me moving
Hiding in the cracks of my own abstraction
I repeat to myself
I want to die
I want to die
I want to die
This litany slithers and drifts
This hope to stop existing
This dream that something
Will stop my mindless gears from turning
Until the crushing weight of my own words
Set my conscious mind to planning
But it was a lie
I just want the pain to stop
So at least
I’ll stop burying the blade deep in myself
I am loved
Even if it probably isn’t true
The tenderest of truths
is the faintest slip of a lie
A truth withheld
becomes the well of tarnished voices
Effluvia pours free
Drowning dreamer and dream
A truth spoken
A blade slick with blood
Cut my flesh
A thousand times
I’ll not fester in secret
I’ll be your truth
If you’ll be mine
something painful or happy
A notion or a story
a dream or a hope
Of depression and manic
Tell me it all, leave nothing out
Your every scar or rainbow on your soul
Just don’t leave me alone in silence
Or speak lies for want of bright words
There is a moment of perfection before
it all goes perfectly wrong
A moment of reflection
Where the past hangs light and the future looks bright
But it’s all crashing down
This edifice of happiness brought low
Spinning plates and broken smiles
crocodile tears brought tale of woe
Desolate in the crashing waves
Sink below and drown
Truth shifts and in the shifting,
reveals the false flame of a love still burning.
Unreasonable and unrequited,
which on surface purity bend,
but on the making reveal revolution.
Bound desire to be desired where hope slinks,
slick surface of dramatic turn.
But in the question we are free.
Free to fall, free to fail
Only cold burn to entropy’s lips
A kiss passionate and yearning
But slanderous tongue in rage
Bit back depredation, drawn blood
The taste of copper course down throat
Made thick with words unsaid
Lies made tangible by omission
The frenetic shift as humanity gears up for one last throw of the dice. One last prayer to the gods of hedonistic delight. Otherwise known as Friday night happy hour.
The work week done and the salaryman, soft and pallid beneath his suit, drinks from Lethe’s waters in the form of cheap vodka dressed up in its father’s clothes. Martini glasses, olives and onions making that Stolichnaya beautiful to weary eternally hopeful eyes.
A thrum fills the air with people throwing out energy, a little too loud, a little too free. Crutch in one hand and a all too brittle smile in the other. Tonight’s the night to have fun or lay weeping in the gutter. Caution fluttering in the wind.
Bound for pleasure, bound to forget, shackled into lives we take this escape deeper into the grave. So happy to be let loose that we slip the cuffs back on in the morning. The crushing weight of a society that neither knows nor cares. Held together by people dreaming in a future that’s long dead.