Cold Searing Reality

He dreams of blood and knives all the time
In waking moments the copper and iron mix to taint his fingertips
At night, he’s surrounded by strangers; he is a stranger to himself
The mirror is a fog of gray and blur-
There is nothing to see that he wants to see
There is nothing he can say to make himself real.

Less of a who and more of a what
Busy shuffling life and drama to the front
Once more drowning himself till the end
Until he, again, doesn’t know who he is
But part of him wants it that way
It’s just too complicated, there are no answers
And no one to put his questions

He’s tired of being just another brittle cup
To eek out another drop of water for the starving souls around
How long until the sun cracks these fragile edges?
How long until they realize he’s not just a tool for others?
They slice him up and divvy the spoils, everyone gets a piece
All that’s left are the bones of anguish, no silence or peace.

He is alone.
That is the worst part of it all.
Everyone has someone and he is just one.
Still.
Again.
And he doesn’t want to wallow in self-pity
But, he can’t help how he feels and he’s tired of being silent.

He dreams of darkness and red
A violent demise to this fear and dread
A soft and muted gray nestled on the sunrise of
Each and every day.
He doesn’t enjoy being despised, he just wants to be
Himself without being penalized.

Why do hurtful people always have power?
Why do they always need a victim?
Don’t they know he has more important things on his mind?
Than wasting energy just trying to survive them, and himself,
And this godforsaken world?
Busy delaying him with petty battles when he’s trying to win
The bigger war.

What is he becoming?
What is he supposed to be
Where is he going?
Is this ever going to end?
How can he make a new beginning
When he doesn’t know where or who or what he is?

For someone supposedly smart
He never has the answers to the questions that plague him
He leaves the room for a cage, the cage for a glass box
The glass box for a room with walls
No windows, no switches to unlock
Nothing but a series of boxes
An echo of chains.

And he must put this away now
He must fold all this away into yet another safe
Housed in the closet
At the end of the hall
Behind the barricaded door
In the abandoned mansion encompassed by the impenetrable forest.

He has failed again.
Containment has been breached, and the agony pours out
In waves of fury, in ice trailing through his veins
In the kiss of Judas stealing the breath from his soul
In the hands of betrayal wrapped around his neck
Grin and whisper that they want him to stay
Then wake him up to kill him again.

Sometimes it’s like he’s not even there
Unless they want someone to blame
He’s not even there
Unless there is someone at fault
He’s not even there
Unless someone needs to be punished.

He isn’t even there.
You have to be a person to be real.
But what does it even matter?
People have no rights at all.
He’s just a leftover script
Of their desire
Just a robot’s soul that they killed.

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Squandered

Picture credit: https://mentalnote8.wordpress.com/tag/betrayal/

The thought slammed into my brain moments ago. A cumulation of rumination, you could say. Friends fade and fall away like the petals of a dying flower in the fall. We were never ready to commit, that or I had committed too soon. To stay. To patch your pieces, to hold you down, to back you up, to slay your dragons and watch your back.

I was the only one who whispered forever when you called us best friends. An incomplete vow of one-sided loyalty. You would abandon me to the fall, let the dragons surround me, let my enemies tear me asunder, and leave me alone on the battlefield of your intention. Like a fool, I rushed to your side when the enemy encompassed you, threw myself between you and disaster, nursed you back to health by feeding you broth from my very bones. But I would be alone in my darkest hour when the cold clasp of defeat would chain me. My summons for aid would be ignored. I would be left in the cold. You would replace me at your table with another; I would be your forgotten knight who no longer served a purpose.

You would fail me in my time of need.

I have learned these lessons well. Trust none, guard your heart, keep the armor wrapped tighter than skin. Await betrayal with expectation.

Loyalty… An abused principle, meaningless in the face of self-preservation. A slaughter of lies -tell me again that I am nothing but a ghost who refuses to see the truth.

We were never friends. I was just your shield, your sword, an arrow in your quiver. Just a tool for you to use then discard.

My life is not a cloth, to be used then tossed away when it pleases you. I am not your toy that you can bring out then put back again. I am not an orchard, to be hacked down and shredded when it seems good to you. I am not yesterday’s fashion to be donated and tossed into the past.

I would have given so much in exchange for a solid shred of loyalty. It is frightening the currency I would pay to secure such a bounty. As such, it can never be purchased, only earned and won.

I’ve learned to hold back. You. Taught. Me: to wrap my intentions tightly to my soul and give nothing away; to house every innocent thought in the banks of Switzerland, and hold my very soul on a distant, unreachable planet; to entrust my virtue to a tower of solitude and my honor to the depths of Atlantis.

You taught me to erase my face. To collect the masks that emote beyond what I could ever hope to express. To abide in shadows and feed on the dregs to soothe my pain. To shy away at a touch, a word, a breath on my skin. You taught me to stain my teeth in my own blood for your sake. To strip away muscle and sinew, tendon and veins, and grind my bones to dust.

You taught me that I was nothing. I heard you when you said that I was worthless. Read your lips when they spat at me with venomed fervor. I witnessed when you took my hand in yours and nailed it to your wall of trophies. I felt the knives go in, felt them slip through my skin, glance off bone and punch through my organs. I swam in the lake of my blood, a carcass stripped of every useful component.

I know your kind. You’re no friend of mine.

Even after I have long since departed, why do you imagine my shadow in every crevice? I would never return, not for all the gold possessed by the Vatican.

You can be the sun and burn yourself to nothing. I care not. I have resigned as your messenger. This whipping boy is on indefinite furlough.

The fire immolates the empty frame of what was. A hollow mockery chortling on the back burner of our past. I only like the scars that remain, for they remind me not to play the fool twice. The story tattooed on my skin spell the tale, a lesson learned without remorse. I do not mind the pain when the moral is taught.

I only regret putting a face to the name

Betrayer.