Confession

    Breathe me in. Inhale the dried teardrops, staining powdered cheeks. Imbibe the violence pounding heavily in my ears, betrayal in my chest, vacancy clouding icy eyes. Consume angst mingled breath, or the trepidation in my twitching legs, and the desolation caving between them. Then, kiss the surrender on my aching lips, and lie to me ever so sweetly. You wouldn’t want to snap me, would you? I’m fragile. Meant to be handled with care and little kid gloves, unless of course, it is more convenient for you, to flay me in your fashion.
    It’s alright. The words you crave to say, are those shattering the glass of my eyes. “Everything will be fine.” No, no it wont.
    I am not a poet, nor a hero. My insight blinds the sun from my mind. Without you I do not live. Breathing your breath, slowly dying from the emissions of your poison. CO2, IOUs, and “I just don’t know what else to say.” Please, do not pity me, as I can only feel your pain. Mine does not register. I am immune to my own psychosis, living ignored, though not in ignorance, of emotion. Does this look like perfection? Your savior splattered across the floor. 
    No, I am no philosopher. No artist. Simply a black box full of skeletons and explosives, labeled Do Not Cross, and waiting to implode. You cannot save me. I defy your laws, the logic of those carrying reason. Any sense of direction or orientation, wretches within my soul, burning it’s way through the black hole, between the blue. To be your answer, I have simply consumed your shadow.
    It’s alright, shut your mouth and say it:
    “Everything will turn out fine.”
    It's the only line you've ever known.