ugly souls

Sometimes, I dislike being the standout point.

What happened to her?

I don't know how to answer you. I have long since wanted the veracity of acrylic paint, but watercolors fail me. There are those that know how to color in the blanks exceptionally well -- I was never one of them. I pick at the pages like a mindless child, one who knows not the reach of her dirty hands that speak so proudly of being, of existing. I'm sure, there is a hint of should have in every success, and I do not deny it. It's only with the most pretentious of denials that I fall under the list of victims who go through a sort of schizophrenia, metaphorically, of course, on a daily basis. When it has become this easy to blur my eyesight as to make the world fall under a bokeh lighting system, I tend not to care. A sense of peculiar fascination has taken over the multifaceted features of tears that wet the lashes, the kind that clumps under singularity because suddenly, believing is seeing. Period. Period. Comma. And these conventions I'm in love with, what am I to them? It has become so painstaking to realize that I can only excavate the droplets of ecstasy in intangibility, and I can't say for sure since when I've had this birthmark on my heart. I have been known to walk with her head higher than what should be above all else, when in fact the soul's laments are seeping into the cracks at my feet. I don't need the attention of paramedics for me to discover the invention suppressed beneath the illnesses. I don't know what it is, but don't fix me. I'm not broken. I'm broken. I'm something of the mediocrity that never has its say. But what is to matter? Everyone only wants, a sympathetic sort of cynicism, and the pressures are too demanding for me. It wrecks the reason for my I, but it's not a union I seek. 

It's exciting, not because the thrill of death is a step and a pebble away, but because I know how conspicuously fear can repel the assonances of my journey with a particularly contemptuous gravity.