Baptized in Regret

Enough

I wonder, is that You? Have you come to take everything from me? Honestly, it is your right. Though, what ever grand punishment you have in mind, I assure you is not enough. 

Mouths lie, ears betray, scent warns, and sight informs. Each hold the memories that are to be lost. I am grateful the most scared threshold was never crossed. I do not know what would have become of me then.  No horror I could ever witness would be able to compare to that.  If I knew what they tasted like...even this bumbling shell would have been accepted by the great moss. Not by choice or chance but effort. If one lesson can be gathered from this adrift consciousness, it would be to  listen to the ancient adage. Hark. The past shall always thrust towards the future, but the wound is dependent on you. 

Words they will never say scratch behind my eyes. Any that do escape are the guilt soaked ramblings of a failed corpse's dream. Should those cursed syllables find a way inside you, I weep for what may ferment. Despair not, for no matter how potent the vitriol, it means nothing without true purpose.

im not sure which one is the real me. am i what you see, or my friends see? even that depends on which friends. a revolving door of faces, vocabulary, and voices. this may sound like a curse, but is nothing compared to what happens in isolation.  who am i suppose to be when it is only me so far each is alien. foreign to myself. 

If you’ll never know them, what’s the point in showing them a sliver of who you are? If you’ll always know them, never dare to show them more than what they need.

my insides want outside

Fleeting romantic desires are troublesome. Not because of the indulgences, but for the acceptance of a failed future. Investing so much of the soul for tears and a hunger for closure. For some reason, the Dream showed a face I had long since forgotten. They too sought to get my attention. Why I can not guess, as engaging in conversation was impossible. Because I made it impossible. I believe the masquerading figure had no agenda, as they could not even answer the simple question of “What?” Whatever the Unwaking tried to accomplish, at the least the acting was very convincing. The disappointed pouting look put on that face was just how they would express contempt.  It felt sweet to see that look again. But I don’t need to remember that face anymore. After all, what good does it do? Hopefully, these fleeting faces will erode into obscurity. And I can dream of something Greater. Something horrendously mortifying that would defile any and all gods with haunting numbness.