2 Minutes. Go!

You are the sickness. You are the parasite. You gnash your sharp teeth, and the sound is misery. You paint your biases with a wide brush - cover everything in a nice uniform color. Some color you can count on. Something like green or blue. 

There are oceans in blood and there is blood in the ocean, on our hands, in our hearts. You can taste the metallic snap of it. Feel the salt slither in. 

Don't try to make excuses for it. You are a sly predator, cozying up beside me. Own your predation. That's the very least you can do. 

No one is going to call you out, because we know you're not right. Not right in the head, the heart, the moral compass. Your moral compass points to nowhere. Just back at you. Like the mirror you won't look into. 

Mirrors are too close to truth, right?

This isn't a game, and you do the world a disservice acting this way. We're just trying to stay clear of the scrambling claws, collateral damage and all that. I'll disappear inside the deepest hole I can find. I'll stay there until the hot light has wiped everything clean. Sterile. New. 

Then, I will live.  

2 Minutes. Go!

Is this what you wanted? Was this the plan the whole time? Im twisted, but I'm not gone - I see what you did with the bait and switch, the sign this line, the "yeah, but" of the whole thing. So, I'm strung up like a garter snake and you're sitting pretty. That seems about right. That seems like justice. 

I wanted to get my hands in there and feel it, see? I wanted to smell the blood and have it stick to me. Call it testimony. Come on down, you're pew is waiting, and Jesus is gonna flay your ass - serve your body with your blood and call it epiphany.

You talk a good game, but you don't follow the rules. Most people let you get away with that like you're their stepson, impish, red-haired. I'm not cut from that cloth. 

The cuts that go the deepest are the ones you can't wash off. 

If you want to fuck my mother, really want it, I'm not going to stand in your way. Just make sure you get consent. She's a big girl - she can make her own incisions.

Take it down to the taxidermist. Have him stuff it up, put bright eyes on it. Have him pull the lips up into a smile. Put the trophy with the rest. Visitations start in fifteen minutes. 

Synchronize.  

2 Minutes. Go!

It's because you don't give a shit. I get it. Caring is hard. It requires investment - and investing involves risk. Copping an attitude is free. Shoulder chips are free. You can edge me off the sidewalk, but you can't make me see. 

I'm counting on my apathy.

It's hard to reconcile. I understand. It's like a storm of hornets swarming, and you can only survive if you stay very still. But you can't stay that still. So, you're fucked. Stop caring, trust me. It's the only way.

I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for some "fuck it" yesterday. 

If you can stop caring naturally, organically, then good for you. Some people need TV or whiskey. Some people need opiates, and some people need God. 

Whatever it takes to get your head on the nod. 

I'll take this stance and polish it. Put my feelings in a box and then demolish it. I'll do whatever it takes to spare myself the need for critical thought. 

Want to see the new iPhone I just bought?