I’m covered in charcoal metaphors you can’t read, words in languages you can’t speak. These complicated symbols aren’t for you, but for me. Reminders of roads I’ve gone down through places dark and deep. Mountain paths and stairwells I’ve climbed when I was sick and weak. And oh, when I was strong — the mountain passes and the tallest peaks.
Do you really think you seeing me means anything?
Look here are pink frills, high heels, a skirt — and now, you think you know me? How about a thin black tie, starched shirt, belt buckled tight. Now you think you see?
Come here and whisper in my ear what you think of me. Tell me all the secret things you know you’ve seen. Like what’s between these thighs and these legs and what, if you press your fingers against me, you’ll find. Touch this skin and plunge your fingers in and what kind of warmth, what sort of blood is inside?
You know from a distance the make-up of what I am? You can calculate on your touchscreen the images that make up my memory of you somehow? You know the chemical composure I engage in not to punch you out, right now?
Ah ha ha. Let me have a good laugh at your expense. You’re a weak puppet on such thin strings and I can tug here and pull there and oh so easily make you dance. Do you like the beat? Doesn’t matter. See? You’re moving to it.
I have tricks and tools and beaks on my side that penetrate the bullshit, cut the night with a hot clean, newly whetted knife. I’ve got mean sides and mean ties and lines to lives you can’t even imagine in your segregated mind.
A pathetic binary you like to count life in. Bad numbers that don’t amount to much. Poorly fitted sheets with the corners snapping off. See, I’m an octagonal peg for your square hole, your round hole, your pie hole. I don’t fit in. And you might consider shutting it before you sound unedcuated. Before you sound too stoopid.
The thing that kills me is you’re tricked so easily. You see a shadow and you flinch. See a light and you blink. See one cheap, poorly executed trick and you just flip that switch like it was waiting to be tripped.
You only don’t realize because I’m not even trying.
I’m not tripping balls or wires or mines in this manic field you’ve left me in. Oh no. I’ve got words and wires and these honed knives and I’m cutting lines. Hsarpenting my lies. Counting down the time.
You got ten minutes until the next alarm. Better run before you’re time’s up. Better beat the gun.