Is the black Soul leaving the skull a sign of death

Is it rebirth or is it what Fate Wished to beheld

the Bug the creature

the Mask of Life

a Nail right through the chest

Penetrate the chitin, see through their Dreams

the Russula cradles the Honey

two Fungi and Bugs Die in each others arms

Why me, Why you all along

when the parasite only Wished to help

why does the Knight take the life

of the savior of the Land

the Trees Weep but the Hollow Husks know not of the tragedy

the Moss cradles the the Shell

the Broken Mask along a Green Path

and Orange eyes watch from the Wasps

as the last of the soul leaks from the hole

and enters the Abyss

This feels less a color of sorrow

It feels sticky

cold

not like ice but something left in a fridge too long

When I think blue, I think the dark blue

A deep ocean of fears and unknown creatures

then remember the smiles of my friends which love it so

then I think back on blue

as a young child it was my favorite there was

I loved flowing water

floating there letting thoughts numb

then I hated it

it felt constricting, trapping, cold

too too cold

too too empty

I think blue to some words, some languages

and those I avoided so long as I hated the word in itself

"blue"

but growth comes with change

no longer my favorite nor a feeling I avoid

blue is a color you can touch and pick up

blue is cold

blue is confusing- for every shade of blue feels slightly different

blue feels like a welcoming old hug

if only id accept it

but I don't

I don't like the texture or the taste or the thought

I don't care to float freely in water or be embraced by sensations of ice

the color of my childhood- now the color of putting my flame out

Earthworms live fascinating lives

They go with the flow

Like going with a crowd

The world moves day by day for them- much like my own

When it's hot, we hide

They would shrivel up and dry

The rain is relaxing

Cool and cleansing- we both come out in the rain

Small, they could get lost

Both of us are small and wiggle as we wander

Both we live among nature

Without them speaking

Plants are louder than people

Swaying and moving along with the wind

My voice resonates at that same level

Bright and loud like red rose

Or calm but seen like the poppys found below our feet

We live to our own rhythm

A stream forward

Through the dirt

Through nature

We follow our hearts and our needs

They aren't creatures of pure solitude

But a calm silence from the rest is nice

Odd as they are

Weird as we both may be

Worms are fascinating creatures

We both live carefree lives

Through halls of school, we’re prepared for our future. ‘Go to a good college to get a good job’ or something like that. Even while scrolling through my phone with my piles of homework out sprawled before me, ads never go away. A cute toy, a fun new book. It all adds to the same place, money- and a job.

So I have to click click and clack on keys in cubical boring my mind out. I look left- look right. Up down all around and then the kids songs I was told about. God was here and there and everywhere all over and watching you. But had I been good? Would He judge- be disappointed. Like a disappointed parental figure- my parents. My brother in college. Oh he was always the best student. Way better than me. I was the failure, huh? By no means bad but by no means good. So that leaves me stuck

back in the chair. At a work place I doubt I could name off the top of my head.

Clear as it was I wasn’t built for this. I wasn't a bad student but by no means good. I was always told I couldn’t know discipline if it hit me in the face.

Hit me in the face

I felt like hitting my face

Banging my head against the desk- the wall- collapse fall fall fall deep into sleep

Far more fun than this

I was lazier than a sloth. Couldn’t focus to save my life.

How could I sustain, live. Fun

All the fun stuff I saw I wanted I worked for but I didn’t in the end I couldn’t hold anything down anything. Money and corporation leaked in every corner dripped like a bad ooze

Adapt or die out

I wish i could adapt

When I blink, that ever mimicking illusion blinks back.

Or, maybe it doesn’t. Not like we could ever see. It reflects every little movement. For that alone, of course we must trust it’s honest. So that face I scratch, scratch, scratch at- tug, cover, pull, scratch- is indeed me. That hair, brown that curls up at the bottom. It is me. Green eyes, freckles, dimples, and every scar from every scratch and itch. It is me.

But, how can it be? How can I have a mirror in my brain that reflects such an entirely different image. How is this one mounted on a wall more accurate. How am I that.

So clearly, so very clear (unlike this foggy mirror, soon to be covered in blood), that can not be me. So very clearly then, there is something behind it. A puppet! A man holding strings. He makes sure this puppet controls every movement to mimic my own- so I fall for the illusion. So many others had fallen, so I see how I could have!

I was scratching again.

-no. No I wasn’t. Just that figure in the mirror. Was scratching. That figure knew its flesh wasn’t its own, so it knew guilt and had feelings. So it scratched, not me.

The puppet must have feelings! For it had guilt, it knew why I had to do what came next. It knew that it was guilty for lies! For hiding behind the mirror! For lying to us all.

Crash, slam, glass, shatter. Shatter! Shatter! Shatter! Now here was where it became unclear- blood and cracks and fingerprints. The puppet was persistent, never leaving station. But finally, it was clear- for it wasn’t clear anymore! The image of the puppet faded behind splatters shatters splinters of a reflection once shown.

If you squinted, an image still appeared. Of one- haggard and heavy breathing. Scratches covered by shiny reflective splinters. But indeed it felt like the creature behind the mirror had been sufficiently put in its place. Dead- maybe not. But never should it lie.

A phrase I know in only one language (not english) always told me to trust the mirror. That it never lied. Clearly, (clear once again) that in itself was a lie. If you can't trust your eyes, then trust your mind. If not for that, what else is there.

Love is not finite

I do not need to dole it out

Like a ration in limited supply

It does not need to be shared

I do not need to be fought over

More and more can I produce from my heart

But as I'm tugged on like a rope- back and forth, told these same lies over and over

Why would I want to produce more- ever

But I do,

For their sake

Their smile, my gifts

Maybe true love requires a ration, a limited supply

And maybe I was born with none at all

When my soul came down from heaven and placed in my body, had I not been distributed any to share?

I share my ears, my eyes, my voice, my mind

So I produce “love”

For them,

For the others as well (more and more line up. how many genuine?)

Love, here, can be ears, eyes, voice, mind

Combine and combine it looks like the sickly pink substance many ooze out (in hallways, under night skys, over a candle lit dinner)

To me, if it quacks like a duck it is a duck

So I use that instead

Maybe love really was finite, all wasted on those feelings I wanted to leave unhurt

Maybe love really was finite, but at least this is close enough

A woman in clean white-

Clean white being that only color which symbolizes her existence- summarizes it

With the chants read from books and all revere the man at the front

Her existence would be wiped in moments

O the cries that will be heard

Red would taint all the purity

how is this pure!

How be it just

I know the candles fell and flames arose

O what irony that which was meant to protect and call to their God

Now be their downfall

she scream- or maybe he- or maybe the man at the front with a long robe meant to symbolize his status, his own purity

The stained glass shatter

Her flesh pressed against my own skin

I ran and ran with her in my arms, to protect her from what fate beheld her

In the chapel burning into the sky

A smoke signal even to the gods

For tonight they won't taste the salty blood of this young woman

and but only the charred flesh of all their impure followers

A white screen reflects back against my glasses-

Glasses

Rarely do any see me with them, so in an irony I suppose I don’t “see” myself in them either

It brings me to reality-

A classroom, a teacher chattering on and on in my ear

My ears covered in headphones

I love math but who can blame when- what problem are we on? The same as from a half hour ago?

Numbers on the board- no- letters

Just letters

When did math only be words rather than numbers

Bright pink sheets, homework sheets that make you go blind to stare at them

So i go back to staring

At the blank white screen in front of me

Some people say that their lover stole their heart- that it was ripped from their chest and crushed in the worst of circumstances, forgotten, ignored, abandoned.

My lover ate my heart from my chest. Devoured my love so wholeheartedly (literally), I lacked the ability to continue pumping blood, to continue existing. My heart wasn’t kicked to the curb. Unlike many crushing heartbreaks, it wasn’t forgotten or ignored. My lover delighted in every bite. Loved me and I loved them- an entirely whole consuming love. And with my heart now in their stomach, forever will be our love for each other.