Pluck the experience raw and wretched from the bed of lies, a grave of insolence where chaos reaps; a place of rest where slumber sleeps. Dig it out from its very root, nails caked in the crimson of my own mechanical labour, elbow deep in an agony so revoltingly neon that it repels even the connoisseurs of my fragmented suffering and leaves me walking on my knees like lady grief herself.
Experience is manipulatable. Acuity is subjective. Mould the memories into divinity, dance a bloodless ballad with death, ivory tones fashioning the figure of my sentient being, a pale flush of silence withering the night into a fragmented moment of loveless sin.
How do you manipulate a manipulator?
Kiss nostalgia in the dawn of a new day, insist that the memories are not deception, promise that things were beauty despite their confinement. Paint over the obscene darkness, exploit the exploiter, take the carving tool and pull the right strings- the puppet master, the corruption behind the mastermind. Paint over the filth with purity, breathe my own lies into existence.
(These things are lucrative, the white runs rivers beneath my skin. Your eyes are shrouded with a film of insistence. Paint it all gold. Watch it glow as the sun’s rays burn away my decay. Paint it pearlescent, watch it wink in the dark of night, a whisper in my ear, your lies are barely a step behind you. When they catch you, they will kill you, and the laughter beneath my tongue, first they will have to catch me.)
The thickets of people are a stifling, burning thing. Think wavelengths of salt and sea. Think frequencies of fire and destruction.
What is one star in a galaxy? (Nothing, small, indistinguishable), and yet the sun which is annihilation in all its rife riot, a massive thing ensuring existence is of the same calibre, from a distance of infinite light years it too is simply one star among the masses.
What I'm saying is nothing is insignificant. What I'm saying is perception does not equate to actuality.
(What I mean is you are more than just the destruction you may have caused.)
People are dark, dehumanising entities, a foliage of thorns, a crown of condemnation. A cry of attention, the wicked shouts of narcissism. A filthy shade of envy lays dormant beneath my tongue and weeps in a ploy to be seen. The tastes dissolve like ecstasy in my mouth. My gaze wanders.
Your eyes are infrared. They burn two holes like bullets to the back of my head.
(Do you really believe I cannot perceive your incessant stares? I bathe in your achromatic valence. A tender change from all the red. The reconstruction of purity. Something good. Something aching to be seen.)
The light is a gaping vulnerability. You get eight minutes of naivety once the sun destroys itself. (I fear the naivety may one day be mine. I fear it may be yours.)
How do you manipulate a manipulator?
The truth is abstainment with a cleaner face. I have manipulated the reddened coals of love into existence, exploited those who have ever loved me into loving me.
Does that make me an exquisite liar?
(Or does it simply make me very unlovable?)
Our eyes meet across the chessboard and all the wavelengths come together, scream through the prism and emerge, holy and white.
