Mark the spot, stain the scar. You haven’t, exactly, passed that far.

I sit in candlelight and ashen cinder smoke alone. Upstairs, where the air is cold. A single set of six strings sings a melody I don’t even know. And from here — in this darkness unknown — I damn you to a hell as yet untold.

A hundred, thousand, million words I could think to say. And yet, you must know the cadence, tone, and the ring of each and every one. A silhouette of a melody in highs or lows where — high on smoke and destruction of these preconceived hearts — we each, individually, make the call.

Violence not-so-cleverly tucked underneath this thin, already bruised, just showing, just coloring skin gets out in little moments, one by one. Cuts and bends and breaks and scars of razor blade marks and burns you don’t know the cause, the origin, the makers of.

Our once brilliant commonalities sparkled like hidden treasures on the surface of a faintly painted screen. But, in reality, you’re as far from me as earth is from the sun. And yet, just like them, we must be perfectly placed to cause this kind of unique interactive reaction, mustn’t we now?

A break in the structure and the construct and all the rules are gone and we’re just drowning in all the goddamn fucking blood.

Can you pick, piece, break it apart yet?

You sweat and shake and I’m tearing at my patterns and definitions before you like piecemeal messy cornmeal crumbs. But, there’s no chance in a non-existent hell that you see what it could be. No way, no reason, no hope for you to see what it does to me.

Preoccupied with some standard to uphold, you just flicker and fade away.
Oh, please. Go ahead. Fall in love and fuck it all and well, fuck it darling — we’ll just try and see.

You have no sense of bitterness these roots dig deep into. Soon, now, you might just see or feel the faintest hint of the aftermath’s breeze.

If you have half a sense: stay floating on that half-alive landscape of cotton candy made-up dreams half made of things and gods that don’t exist. Right now, I’m sure you’re on your way somewhere, but fuck it if I know where.

If you can change the rules on me, then I was wrong before you were. Rules are for patriarchs and monarchies and systems I don’t believe in anymore. I got tricked, dragged down, pulled under the engine I don’t think can crush me. Then, why the fuck do I feel crushed in the end?

Simple. I follow, bent, and break to the patterns patterned into me too. That’s how I know without a doubt they’re real and mean and strong with broken teeth, and I hate them all the more.

Anarchy is not the heart of chaos and destruction, but the soul of motion in this world. A single rhythm reverberates through all these individual bits and bones, but you may be too goddamn fucked up right now to feel it.

Wait. Take a breath and breathe it out and see, just try and see if it’s there.
I fucking dare you to.

Is that too harsh, too mean, too blatant and obscene?
Didn’t you know? The mark of every prophet is the inability to connect to a reality they already know is there. Well, darling, you have read your bible and you know the backhand of religion like I do too — so you of all people should already know.

Don’t be surprised when we all wake up alone.

The elemental thing that makes you — in case you ever wondered — burns best long and slow. The lack of tangible oxygen makes its mark on wood once dry and raw, forms lumps of pitch and total blackness that glow red when licking flames come to play.

Oh, but this living incarnation I only get to dream of by beeswax candlelight and slow-going incense smoke and all the things you thought, you think, you must fucking know now we’ll never be.

The news to you is mokutan is made of wood and carbon, and carbon can be sharp and hard and cold. You think you’ll melt or break that down or mend and meld that into you. But you try and try as you might, and instead it just cuts right through. A wound and scar from the infection afterward — that’s your mark and sign of the times you had with it.

You think this is pretty in the end? Does it still appeal to you?
Well, good god. I hope you fall in love. Don’t mind the fall — the crash afterward is harder than you think.

You still believe in possessive personal love with ownership and terms of contracts, I believe But, you’ve never been on the other side of that fucked up spectrum. You can’t get there until it’s far too late.

Have fun.
It’s all goddamn sure to pass. Blow over. Blow your mind, in the end.
You’ll be fine.
I’m sure of it.


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