The Butterfly (Knives)

My life drips with sorrow, my wrong decisions staining the bottoms of my feet and the footprints I leave behind.

All I want is one thing in life, but I have been forbidden to speak it, forbidden by my own pride and preconceived notions of myself.

I think I am so much more then I really am. I come up for air, to catch my breath after swimming through the lies I force myself to live in.

It's unbelievable what the human mind can convince itself of if we really want it to believe something. I could never understand the selfish ways of human nature.

The tears that fill my glass give my coffee a more bitter flavor then wanted, but I down the lukewarm cup anyways, hoping something will cure the hunger in my stomach that has resided there for over eighteen years.

I stare from the side as Good Will and Fortune serve up portions to the luck-bestowed who walk straight and tall in front of me, confident and sure of their place in this mutual existence some call life.

I slide my playlist across the table to the DJ, my paper filled with tears and hate, blood and sorrow, and he places it to the side, ready for the next.
…mine was forgotten before it even existed…

People's eyes glaze past my cries for help, my voice lost to those unwilling to listen, the fake sincerity nauseating to a point of ultimate intolerance.

Unbelievable the way the red courses across flesh, as we determine our fates.
Much like the societal beliefs of those closest to me, and the difference in race and belief on the rules of social behavior.
Who behaves, socially?

Those red lines extend to the floor, creating patterns and becoming darker and darker as they are lost in the shadow of my mind.

"Only one person will be with you your whole life, dear," my mother used to tell me, during our marital debates, "You. And You alone."
I take this to heart, and know that only I will be there when I die, and I carry on with this.

Self-loathing fill my eyes and horrible pastimes fill my coffin, and I know I will have to lie in the filth I have created for myself when I pass on.
Who knows what happens if Jesus will bless us, or the Devil condemn us.

I feel the hands of the ones who have come and gone.
At the time, lifting me up, but after a while, they weigh me down, too many hands, drag me down, deeper and deeper.
Yet another pair shoves the all-too-familiar shovel back into my hands, and tells me to dig.

Oh how I hate those hands, I have come to call Reality.
He usually calls on me after my Imagination has visited for a spell.
We may find in life that the lines between these two get smudged, some by tears and others by sweat of labor, but sooner or later Reality proves too strong for the ever short-lived Imagination.

Intoxicating as dreams maybe, they are designed so we may be distracted from the vile lives we lead, the horrid habits we obtain.

But, alas, every person leaves their mark in our lives, a jagged, red, bleeding mark that fills the bowl of Regret and Shame I dip my Pride in and force to swallow.
I gag, and every time it proves harder and harder as age and stubbornness close my throat, constricting the thought patterns I have programmed into my subconscious.

The dream-world of our brains, filled with unremembered nightmares and half-seen visions of things too horrible to speak of among dignified peoples.

I find myself lying awake at night, the terrors tying me down and imposing on my consciousness, not letting up until I have lost both that and my voice.

Vocalization.
I suppose there is a point, if someone can hear you.
Either that or you try to express to the world, possibly to yourself, the burning hatred you have for the ones who torture you every second of every minute of every hour of every day.
You don't know who does these things too you, because you find that when you follow the thread to the other end, you are at the beginning again.
This infinity symbol is uncomprehendingly frustrating, and you search for a new voice to rant and rage.

As my bodily mass disperses, tearing off slowly and painfully, strip by agonizing strip of my useless skin, another thing wishing to be deprived of my presence.

I try to tie myself down with my thin heartstrings.

I use them as lifelines, but they are so tired and useless, the slip right through the cracks in the floorboards, the very same that line my soul, waiting to be drawn back in and tossed again.