Their mind, their body, the things I can relate to, the things I have touched. I don't want to think about it anymore.

 

 

A gift to me. It was pretty. The edges were made in detailed gold leaf. Maybe it wasn't real. Charade patterns seem to go that way too, I think. There was some messy dust I had to sweep off the floor before anyone could notice and possibly take it away on their shoe soles. I had to prevent that from happening. I had to sweep it away myself in order to save what little value may be contained it int. I had to lose face. 

 

        I lost the idea of charicture, but still had animation. It was sturdy enough not to worry about it being enough to relay on when I had to. A system I don't tell anyone about. That would spoil everything. They'd know when I'm using it, when I'm deeply into it, so much so, I don't have to notice their ugly faces. It's all a blue. Incomprehensible. I make up ducks and chain saws and high. Little bananas on a little island. I have to work at it though, because sometimes I forgot I can use it. I can't relax Enough to allow myself the pleasure of it, to change the slide in front of my eyes. I have to practice. Outings are monsters. A mark is a problem, black unusable ink doesn't wash off with anything except boric acid. So I pour some on, and watch it burn my innards.

 

        I heal it with a small bandaid.

​

        A scouring pad cleanses the dirt, inflames it it further. They say it has to be done though. I protest, I do not want it. It will hurt me, I don't want to be hurt. I am tired of the hurt. I want to run away form it. They grab me, hold me down in my chair, they won't let me go, they make me receive the whiskey in my wounds.

 

        After they are through, they still won't let me go, they inflict more wounds, pour more alcohol, holding me down in a prison. They enjoy it. They keep doing it, over and over.