Monstrous Things

I built the foundations of my flesh

On relapses and fake fiction

A nightmare dressed in scarlet letters

Drag me out in recanted desperation

.

I cut my teeth on reincarnation—

To live, to die, to leave again

.

Existing is as bitterly blistering as the arsenic

Threaded through my veins, replacing

Control, slowly decaying bones and plastic

.

I pretend that hope’s not mere optimistic ignorance

And swerve before the collision hits my ribs

And failure decides to forge placid smiles

Of jaded reassurances and arrogant bliss

Here’s the nerve to tell me how I should feel…

.

I shouldn’t, should I? It’s all the same

If so, then tell me I’m wrong; undaunted and

Abrasive—ignite me with purest prosopagnosia

.

As schizophrenic choirs no longer chant askance

Neither I, nor you, never this hell above

.

It’s all pointless, nothing but viscid dromomania

.

I built myself on silken stagnancy,

Desiring beyond the pale, euphonic amnesia

And torn down with macabre allegories—

Are you be ashamed to be one of the monstrous things?

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