It's funny, I think I've escaped you. Life plods on and I march in time to the dry beat, on and on. Seconds into hours into months and not a peep - a full night's rest and not a wink. No traces of this haunting pain and regret I've come to know so well. There will be mornings when I awaken and nary a moment passes I don't think of you but when I do it's a passing afterthought, like asking myself whether I forgot to turn off the coffee pot or brush my teeth.
Then, predictably, you come... blown in with the snow. I lay in bed and hear the hollow thumps and shrill whistles marking your arrival.
“If I said I want you back I'd be a liar...”
I don't know if you know this but you control me like a ningyō. You tell a story through my tears so sad and tragic. I've literally lost control of my own self, now guided by ghosts. Demons dwell in this hollow corpse and devil's are left to their own devices void of exorcism. I am empty and dead. A plastinate splayed on an examiners table exposed for all to see. I am a monstrosity even Mary Shelly couldn't have imagined in opium bleached dreams. I am a rickety Bunraku hollow man, it's true, and you control me with deafening skill and precision as the needle slides into a scabby vein. You pull back on the plunger as a swirling cloud of red dissipates. Tears well up in blank eyes and regret and hate and shame flick over in succession like rapid light-flared graffiti portraits.
It is you that guides my hand. I blame you because I am a fucking scared-shitless coward.
I no longer search. I have given up the search and now I can only wait. Either for death or salvation or damnation, I don't know, whomever finds me first. I wait alone here for you wrapped in a dirty torn blanket. I do not move. Here I lie with a skeleton smile and in my veins flow poison, and I am thankful for this poison as it continues these sweet dreams so absent of you.
And I know it is only temporary.
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