Close each open space that you left open and conceal that which was exposed at one time or another. May the only parts that remain permeable be small and far between. Certainly try to remember where all the places that closed have been.
The truth is that it matters little what it may be; wether there is truth or a lie is of small consequence. Who better than yourself to realize that this world will serve you a cold dish or a warm broth? Remember that you will at least always have something in your kitchen and those who eat from your fine china will feast tonight. Those who do not sit at your table shall never truly dine on your delicacies for an appetizer does not a whole meal make.
You will always know what’s true and what’s transient. Your heart will tell you. So choose the memories you make wisely lest you’d like to indulge sadness.
My favorite part is when they think they know it all. They only know the nice parts of me.
I keep my fangs hidden away, so do they belong to vampire or serpent?
You fucked with the wrong person today.
Welcome to the 21st century,
Where the girls are perfect,
Oh so beautiful,
Say men that hardly try,
As if girls should melt,
Upon hearing those empty words,
Never backed up by much truth.
It’s doubtful that they ever knew how inside of you trickled a tiny stream of phrases promising without delivery an action that never arrived. It’s dubious that they ever imagined that the tiny rivulet would become secret floodwaters within you that one day would drown out all ideas pertaining to them as the surge broke down the wooden posts only half-blocking their phrases from the machines within your head that processed the wood into truth. Little did they all know that within you were compartmentalizations of them that became a burden too heavy to hear by the cabinets inside of you that held their weight. Shocked will they be when the contents fall to the floor and the flood eroded the wooden structure of the homes they built within you with your permission. Fortunate will you be when all that is broken is washed away leaving you with a clean slate to build your own walls.
Your true color is dark gray, muddy, half devoid of substance as if it couldn’t be enough. Your halo is gray and tilted to one side and I saw cracks in your demeanor. For a while I looked at myself and saw some of you reflected as I slowly turned light gray from a pure white. Your color is dark gray, beautiful, but grimy and it brings me down and I wonder what it must feel like to carry that weight with you of pouring out uncontrollably as you hold on to fragments from when you fell to the floor and shattered. I am an act of self-love, in constant motion, and ever so willing to give the little pieces of light that I hold in my hands, but I can’t share that light if all you’ll do is obscure my path.