DC's SPD TAT...
"...that's when I saw the truth spinning down the river..."
There comes a time. Absolute. Unquestionable. Darkly permeated by every breath that you have taken. All things lead up to this day. This moment. This thought. However fractured and seemingly crystalline. There comes a moment. And it is irreversible. Your heartbeat is more tangible than usual. Your body is plunged into a backstreet filled with shots of tired adrenaline. Tired shame. Tired. This breath. That reaching. Those words. The ones that fly out of your mouth like vandals sacking a city. The irretrievable mistaken thoughts formed between firing synapses jumping to your tongue before you can call them back. Atomic bombs unleashed without consideration.
Yes, inconsiderate. Like a child confused and pushed to a breaking point. No. That is too easy. Like an adult fucked up and not thinking. Years of anger and sadness and loneliness pummeling what little you might cherish to pieces. It is a grand delusion constructed to make things “fit” just so within the horror show. Your horror show. Externalizing the internal like a shotgun shell expelling its pellets. I shot you. Because it was time. Absolute. I see nothing but disease. Because I am diseased.
My failings are legion. Your patience is sanctified. I play out my days like a revolving door. Better (today). Fucked (tomorrow). Ruined regardless. I started out with a different desire. Simplistic and unadorned. Now the complex crown that I carry is covered with broken pieces of misunderstood flotsam. Perverted into a way of life so far removed from any idea of potential “being” that they are impossible to not recognize as malformed unrecognizable once-upon-a-times. Anger. Pain. Anger at the pain. Pain due to anger. A feedback loop that can never be disguised.
I am disingenuous. I am a mistake. My mistakes have made me carnate. Like some fallen god that once was held in esteem. By myself? All by myself. I tore my playhouse alter down. I pissed on my “good” nature. I become death. Slow and putrefied, all that I once possibly could have been is rotting. Has rotted. There is no redemption. I am not special. There is no magic. I am not gifted. There is no way out. Because I am diseased. That’s the only thing that makes sense now.
So I became a shadow. A post-Atomic puppet. Deep in this moment I know that there is nothing of any worth. That is freedom. To act and know that you are worthless. To be free of all illusions of meaning. But I have you. That is irreconcilable. Juxtapositions work though. Pretence is reality. I…am…not…here. Not anymore. I am a counterfeit. Yes, I feel. And I feel deeply. But I know that what I feel, what pains me so, what angers me, is indeed meaningless. So I bite you. I hurt you. I destroy myself. If I were a teen-age head this would still be acceptable. But I am almost the same age as my father when he died. And I will never wear his vestments. And I love you. How can that exist?
I have no one. “I’m your kind, and I know.” Lie. So true. Pick up the papers. Walk across the park. Step into the traffic. Tempt fate. But I always live to come back and hurt you. I love you. The curb looks mountainous. The street a long valley between monoliths. You had stood on the bridge and contemplated something before going home. I watched from below and then followed you. You. To our home. You. To our door. Our door an altarpiece. You, the ever-present lamb. I crawl into my Butcher’s coat—white and pressed—and call to you.
It is just a small cut in your happiness, I promise. But I say it differently this time. I worry that you remember all the cuts I have stolen from you. Over a life. Do you believe in that? That? Swift and sharp like a shot given quickly, you won’t feel a thing until it’s over. A life that is passing by. I’m your kind. And I know. So kiss me and give me a tender spot that I can encase in pain. Ah. Now it’s my turn. I don’t need to show a tender place. I am a raw piece of meat walking on awkward stilts up to your lips. Any place will do. Should I speak? Something that I believe is true or important? A gift. This is the place to slice me. Yes. There. You are my family. Existing. Feel my wick of a tongue kill that hoped for happiness. That is what you were hoping for isn’t it? To be with me? I-am-not-here. Cease.
