Figments Of a Guilty Conscience: Thoughts
by AD
Perhaps it’s boredom that drives me. Eat, sleep, dream. To write is to escape. Slip, slip past boundaries, not too far, you might fall in love. Maybe its love I want, hate, fear, impassive impossible. Everything except, everything but, everything unreal. An emotion too strong for this place, for these things. Maybe I’ll be alone. To devour, to dream. To be remembered. Do you remember? Long, restless nights, dreamless nights. Do you remember? I don’t. Crawl inside: devour.
Separate, keep it real, I can’t remember. My life and yours bleed together. Do you remember? Are you real? Am I?
And so I write. Blood lies bleeding, ink upon the page. Do you remember?
Clean, am I? White and shiny? No, dirty, always lying, always dreaming. What’s the difference? Dreams—I think they were dreams, darker then black. Was it you who made me weak—or was it me who made you real? Keep it separated. Am I flesh? Do I bleed or are words my only substance? I can’t remember. I think I’ve lost. When does the end appear? I think I’ve lost myself in you, poured bucketfuls of—me. Can you feel me? Can I? Salty to the tongue, ripping me apart. Can’t stop—can’t stop—he’ll catch me.
I think I live in dreams—really live. Can I? Am I capable? I’m not sure. Can’t remember; do you? Am I here? Are we? First time for everything.
Drink from me and live forever—ha.
Maybe a breath, maybe a dream, but not with you staring. Do you burn? I do. Blood made my flesh hum but you make it burn. Clothe yourself in lies, doesn’t work, doesn’t save, doesn’t fool.
Do you drive me? I’ve never been with you, inside, maybe, but never within. Do you glow? I can’t remember. To sleep perchance to dream.
I’ve killed you a thousand times, slit your throat, make it bleed. Am I that man? Would you kill me? Would I let you? Only by your hands. I’ve always been dead—might as well again. I can almost remember—can you? Or were you too fargone—asleep inside? Did you make me this? I’ve split—no mind.
Would you dream if I were inside you? You must. Just a taste, just a touch, just the three of us. Was he here always, in me—or in you? Death is a worry of the living.
Rip, tear, grind, bite, bleed. Are you dead? No, you can’t know what its like; the pain. Not for you, great and powerful. It hurts, being dead. Dead inside out, not a breath, not a spark—not until it burns.


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