Killing for a Dram of Self-Preservation
In the night you dream of killing. Not in cold blood with malicious intent, but in self-defense you destroy friend and stranger -- equally. With knife or gun, or both. And confess it all to your father as you wrestle with blankets that wrap around you, revealing the knife you keep beneath your bed.
In the day, armed with a pen, you slay these haunting images. Terrified, you struggle to sort the knowledge from the elusive thoughts that stuff your pillow -- certain that determination will destroy your persecutors. Ink melds with blood, spilling forth in a breathing prose of death.
Yet the truth is never hidden. I can see it even now as I envy your troubled slumber. I admire your rebellious heart, fiercely pumping fear and pride, fueling the turmoil. I, who have no dreams, wish for someone to kiss. For bloodshed to ruffle my blankets. I am jealous of your strife -- your effort to continue living. The instinct for self-preservation I lack. The demons you choose to banish are the lost angels I long for. Restless uncertainty clouds your vision, distorting the image. Allowing you to curse the gift I see, so clearly, before you.
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