Skeptic's Metaphors

Tearing the cellophane from the mouth of the decision. Ugly, brown and burnt. The fetid progeny of green eyes turning grey.

Eligible tragedies. Are what I make from life.

Stencilled skin. Color after color stalking the veins they once kept hidden. A scream permanently drawn on the face of an angel. A tear charred into the eyes of a child. Woken up late at night by the stench of a life I swallowed, but couldn't keep down.

Fluid and amber as the night rolled us over and chased its way inside. Another moment gone sour as we hesitated to drink it in.

His eyes played tennis with the question. Darting back and forth as I tried to focus on his nose. Too small for his head. The net was always there, but suddenly I saw it for the first time. When his last lob struck it, paused a second and then fell limply to the ground.

I stopped listening after that and just got on with the hurting. Learning the sound of the breaking branch. Memorizing the oratory of the silence. Little birds swarming in my head as I dug deeper into the flesh. Looking for things that were never there.

Every reason for making that journey was gone. I found so much in the skins they wore. But was so disappointed when I found nothing below it.

Paper dolls. At the mercy of someone else's scissors.

The closer we get the more alone we are.

I know this because he showed me.

The whisper is how the heart screams. When we've nothing left to be except ourselves. As useless to each other as a kiss is to a prostitute.