You are beautiful, at an arms length away. But I think you like it that way. From afar the jagged edges and rough spots blend and blur more easily, flying under the radar of casual perception.

You take all the ugly you have and shove it deep inside and bar the gates. There's no welcome mat to your fortress of solitude. With alabaster encased in steel, with jaunted spikes and bleeding spills. And you push away, and push out, you declare this as your space. A line that can not be crossed, the line between the magnificent and the grotesque. And such you glorify and ritualize, the convulsions of your danse macabre.

So you spend all your time then, like a butterfly, wandering the shallow places of this world. Where courtesy and social pleasantries are exchanged, and you sustain yourself on small talk in lieu of pointed conversation. Frivolous words and the senseless banter of those that don't really care. Of those who can't or don't want to see deeper than the pretty face before them.

The funny thing is, I see all this. I see what an imperfect job you do. The missed spots, the glossed over, the cracked parts that spill over and out. Yet strangely it bothers me little, giving a faintly surreal feeling of starring into a mirror. Of looking at a reflection seemingly all too familiar.

Perhaps I see what I want to see, but I sense the sadness and the shivering of a frightened child. You are a sheep in wolves clothing. And when the light of the dark moon shines down upon all the creatures of the night, I hear the cry within the howl.

You are beautiful, at an arms length away. But I think you like it that way

[ esca | 10:41 PM | ]