Where this leads me I will never know. Yet. This does not have a name to begin with. It cracks and leaps up and dives down and thumps not having found its place. It tip-toes on the uncertainty of its own existence. It seeks. Why oh why things go in directions. Patterns deceive itself. Cycles, you mean to say? What are you, some kinda some? Watch me then form a pattern of some kinda some earthquake prediction. Where it hits. What time. The intensity. How intense would you like it?
Pictures tell stories they don’t have with them. A story creeps out, leaks out, and blows itself off. Like a suicide bomber. And you are not your own. Just borrowed from someone having stories to tell. Bored and sick. Meanness is everywhere. It’s in the rain. Your father. Your mother. Yourself. Your own self. I wish you can kill it. Blow its head off with a shotgun. After you kill it, skin yourself. Your skin will show the sins you did. Like a pattern. But you know it does not tell lies. It’s your skin. Your own skin. The one you had ever since. A given like a piece of soil. A territory that yields freedom. Where you can plant. The way it grows hairs. Some thick and black and hard like brush’s bristles. Some soft and thin like feathers. Hairs too, they don’t lie. Talk to them sometimes. They turn grey only to mean a solid no. Ha-ha.
Peace talks don’t mean anything to me now. I need a ransom note so I can glue it on my forehead. That’s the only true thing. When you literally let it read in the face. Face to face. Eyes to eyes. Until you breathe what the face in front of you breathes out. Then you understand what a war is. It is not in bloody red. The war is in black. The iris, unending. Never ending. Drowning you in a universe of coal-black. Then you also understand that the real color of fire is black. It is the color that keeps you in your stance. Shadowboxing your ghosts. Running your fingertips wild on your head. Through your hair because it tells you the truth. And truth is in color black. In front of you. Naked. Face to face, darling…
Suppose like the night you end up there showing your stars. And a full moon you are proud about. How will it look like? Tell me. I am dying to know. You think you inspire? Oh you think so much. You look at yourself and you find no one. Not even the person you are. You think you are a star yourself. Congratulations then. You are a black hole. Alone. Black. Empty. You are wearing with you your truth. A blunt black bold truth. Alliterate it. No matter how many times you do, you will never find a rhyme that meets in both ends.
Amy’s got a mouse inside a matchbox given to her like a piece of soil. It peeps like a fetus. But don’t kid me. You haven’t seen a fetus yourself. A life. Not quite. Speaking like you do now won’t get you anywhere but here. Sometimes you think you’re cool because you can stay up for forty-eight hours. But you will sleep. Not today. But you will. Sleep will take its toll. It will make sure you will notice it come. Slowly. Step by step. It will dare you. It will be painful. Scream like ants in silence. Soldier ants. The queen ant like the queen bee is the queen of an army. There is no king. He dies. Mute. Frail. In sticks and dust swept off by a kind of broom in Halloween. Boo!
You are mad because you are trying to squeeze me for something you can write on your fiction. But you are a fiction yourself. You liar! Cover up your trails. I can track you. You are mad about me. Yeah? I know. Because you know you can’t get something out of me. I can tease you all your life. Do you know that? That is only what you can write about me. Me teasing you to death. So what if your knuckles won’t move. Hard on the keys. Hard on letters. Hard on fixating things you don’t really know about. Hard on yourself. So you think you’re a god. Divine your ass. Crow like a chicken in sunsets. Beat me now. Or beat me, never. You’re sick in the head. That won’t work. You won’t work. Forever try.
These pieces you have in mind. How would you describe them? Like pebbles inside your pockets? Like a coin in your shoe? Like a bald head? Like grey hairs? Like apples? From an apple tree you haven’t seen yourself? Are you kidding me? I hope you are. Fly away now more than ever. You freak me out. You scare me. I’m afraid of you. You don’t tell me anything at all but I hear you. I hear you. I can smell you. Stop it! You just read it somewhere! It separates us into oceans and lands. Like you can always come to me. But you don’t. Well. Hell. I want to bite off a piece of your face. I want to eat you now. So they say only lovers and cannibals talk like this? But I am no lover. I am no cannibal. But you are both. I just want my revenge. Out of sense. Out of un-sensing. In spite of un-feeling. Feeling me un-feeling you. How must it be then? Like one billion pairs of hands parading a prayer brigade? You tell that to your friends. Sell yourself to others. Piece by piece. But before you do that, think of me. Because I need you. I need you to keep my secret between your palms when you pray:
I’m just like you.
