my malevolence and wrath were always too strong for my facade to hold; steely things,
my mask merely a strip of petal-soft silk. held up only by the wish to be a benevolent being,
a higher power, a martyr, a saint. yet, realisation looms that the only true benevolence,
the only true martyrdom, is to submit to myself; to blossom, bloom, be beautiful.
to pick the wings off of butterflies and eat them, to paint over powder-blue with acidity.
sacrifice myself to save myself. let the blood fall, scarlet, from my drowsy eyes... resting within unrest.
wage war upon myself, a terrorsome one, reveal my bones and my guts and my brain; a crude display of art.
open, my heart bared. dig in and take it, cold and unbeating. for, after all, i'll always be yours.