And your nectar infiltrated in my senses, in my temples, in my song… and in yours, nothing but the backstory of me crubling for two decades. Nevermind the electrical novel we wrote last years, separate the damage of lost causes I still deny to fight. For the magical sadness, witchery burned by immoral obsessors, the real sin, signifying the beginning of our fight.
We set our house on fire using rocks to mean something; I fell on the inside, now you’re just one of them, and I’m paying for the mistakes that you’ve made. You’re so happy, hypocritical.
Going somewhere out of nowhere you’re not yourself anymore, or you’re all you’ve always been, all you’ll always be —
both hands, not mine, are opening my chest bit by bit, calmly in uniformity, unsewing an organic overlay, protectors of nuclear suit; the knots going up to my throat, like a river in reverse, betraying the path of maintaining order in my body’s painting; strings of cold blood passing through my arms, imposing pressure to kill its shelter; eyelids shaking, drums on carnivals, a never-stop movement that slowly takes over this whole planet; thunders striking cerebral artistry, blinding thoughts, locking doors. All dancing to the nightmare between wanting to face the easy or battling to keep numbing around until your body can’t take it; on both ends, I’m already gone, at least for an hour, most of the days, many times during each one. Leaving as a chalk outline.
It could happen for anything.
I’ve been a profound loss, a vulture who eats my own meat, leaving me just bones to prolong my eternal aversion to touches, at least then I can feel safe. I’m Prometheus and the eagle, my hero and my villain, my regeneration and destruction. I’ve given me light and also my power, the energy to make shine, I offered you caring and I got annulment. There’s not a single day I wasn’t humanized by the tears I don’t share, and nobody’s got a chance to stay for they were tired of my downfall, so I grew older, kept my head hidden in cloudy expressions, kept me where not even I could own. So, there’s no nectar anymore for their human neglect, no attraction for I no longer need to have someone, the only shoulder in my view is from those who are responsible for writing the pages I dive in as if they were air.
Letters, a powerful trade. No one can soil the will of gods who give me more existence than ordinary beings do, for I’m religious enough to surrender myself to words deep in my spirit. The philosophical death, the absurdist Father would say, is for me committing it for him, praising the one who uplifted me by me trying to be nothing. Being nothing is becoming everything, and I want to be everything when no one can see me. I’d surprise shallow war warriors by my warrior dignity in the name of believing life is just a step-by-step path of mind. That’s the kind of thing not a single other breath can take away: the only nectar is for a selfish pollinating agent, you can call me Narcissus. So me-Nothing becomes a yellow flower, a meaningless presence, beautiful in my own solitude.
I am nothing and everything; I’m a myth, a reality, and a dream. I’m a trash can, I’m a threat; I’m the dirt of a trauma, the crash of the mind; I’m a tragedy. I don’t matter. I’m lonely, a harmless time-bomb; I’m a witch, my magic is to own myself, and owe myselg to conquer my right to be free. Dance around me, trying to hurt me, but I thrive singing in the rain.