Scent of Satire Under My Arms

I don't need a friend. I need paper. Thick enough to grip the ink. Herd these rivers into their oceans. Until every drop is alive. Able to move and churn and spill without my input. Without my sacrifice.

Separate.

Not me anymore. Not found in the crooked lay of my glasses. Nor the deadened cock of my burgeoning vices. Not my blood. Nor my veins.

Just itself. As I watch it happen without me there.

I don't need a friend. Not that I have one. Or would know how to keep. As if they are kept and not begged to stay. I don't need the sunshine. I have the dark. And everything it shows me without hesitation. As though I am thick. And hungry like it is. A stubborn blade impaling the urge to feel them. Drink what water has become. And chew what flesh always is.

Bargaining with the void. Speaking in letters. Forcing the microscope to examine itself.

Because words don't mean anything to me. And all I can see is them.

They don't mean anything.

They're just preachers who don't believe in their own gods.