This
corpse-like
facade has dragged on for too long. Our lives lived out with
painful
simplicity, the
skin on our faces pinched to the
skull. My eyes are hollow, my
passion drained. We
starve, we
sing, we
despair. This vicious cycle has gone on too long. Nothing but a corpse. I am a corpse. Walking.
Breathing. Living. We are everywhere, and I see them too often. We know each other by face, and we send out broken sympathy mingled with estranged hints of encouragement to continue this cruel habit. Death. Decay. Rot. Something is not right when you cling to something so far out that you believe yourself that it will end up in bliss and happiness. Someday I will rise from my bed, my night-time
coffin and groggily open my eyes in front of the mirror to reveal something that has kept me up on nights like this. Nights as grey and dismal that I just want to evaporate into the mist and become a part of it. I will look into the
mirror and no longer see my face. My face will be as much mine as yours. As much hers as mine. Is that not something we all strive for? The face of another. The face of one you despise yet love to your bones, to the bones you strive so longingly to be able to see and feel. Walking corpses.
Bone. Skin. Emptiness. My skin is
elastic, is yours? I run my index finger over my
wrist bones, I
kiss them. I touch them again, feeling the knots on either side. Is this what a corpse feels like? I am cold, I feel blue. I am too afraid to turn to the mirror and see what could possibly be lurking in its
cruel reflecting truth. The truth that I may crumble into the dirt I stand on, and become nothing more than fertilizer for the flowers I have trampled and ripped from their roots. The cruel and undeniable truth that perhaps I'm not what I think I could be, or want to be. At the end of the day, is this where I want to be? A walking, breathing, living corpse.
Drowning in my own self-pity. I can feel it. I can feel the
sorrow of the world echoing through my bones, through my own
selfish indulgences and thoughts, my words echoing off the walls of my skull.
We cover it all up. We dye our hair. We plaster
fake nails to our fingers. Deception. Beauty. Instinct. Is this real? A white washed corpse, blowing in the wind. A country of white washed corpses, and the rest striving to be. It doesn't matter if you're dead or alive. Beauty is truth, the truth will set you free. Tear apart my chest, make my tits bigger. Make them perfect like a porn star. Please,
God! Cut open my body and make it nothing but a corpse. Let me float on air like those plush super models. Let me be sullen and white. Let me be ignorant. Let me feel the bliss that all the beautiful people feel. Let me feel it. Let it ravage my soul and burn into the dark abyss of my hips and thighs and stomach. Tear me apart, make me anew. Make me whole.
Shatter me.
How much longer until I am a
clone? A beautiful clone. Is there anyone that isn't striving, or at least wishing for perfection in this
desolate world of pin-up's,
porn stars, movie stars, and wishing stars? Am I not a star? Why can't I be? Is it the hole in my heart? Are my fingers too big? Oh God, have mercy - my fucking bones don't stick out enough. This is over-kill. This is life. This is love and this is pain. To hell with starving kids in Ethiopia or wherever the hell those starving people live. The people that don't have a choice. We starve for pleasure. We strive for
beauty. That which makes us stronger can also make us weaker, we tell ourselves. It's the enemy. This is the only thing that is real. My life. My words. My body. I am no one but myself, so why should I care?
A country full of starving white washed corpses washed up in a world of sand, grass and the mounds of dirt we pile over ourselves when we starve for too long. This is real. This is our life.