Miss Asphyxia (trypanophobic34) wrote in poet_society,
Miss Asphyxia

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"Dear Mr. and/or Mrs. Sender...your life will be one never-ending 'Hope you're feeling better'..."

Yes, another one of these incredibly long poems.


I follow him there every night
I guess you could say I’ve become a bit of an admirer
He sits and drinks till his eyes are shining bright
I wonder what images play behind the dying fire

He looks at all the girls
Flashing a smile crooked-and-stitched-on-one-side
Everything’s a Tilt-o’-Whirl
For a moment we see a giant spider, and oh, that he lied
He has his fun, but soon it’s done
’Cause once he side-glances into a mirror
There’s a stone that drops in his heart, and a leer
That makes him shrink like a pale eyeless thing from the light
Something burned and decayed thrice

And like the snake has said before him,
With silver tongue of insidious intent,
“Shed your skin, the pain of accumulated days
Grow it healthy, anew, by burning it all away.”

I see him shiver inside his skin
Bruised yet caressed by the cold night air
There’s something in him, either thick or thin
That hisses and presses but doesn’t dare

When the hour is old and exhausted
I sit alone in my sea of lamplight
Hoping that he might notice me
But of course he doesn’t, doesn’t even see
Because I am more real than those barroom dreams
Oh, I’m not pretty
And I’m not brave
I’d only make him feel bad about how he behaves
I’ve known him long enough without his knowing
To know I’m nothing he can use, nothing he craves

And like the snake has said to him,
Time immemorial, with his own tongue,
“You can be like me, be whole again like me
Free yourself from your skin’s mortality”

Yet I can’t help feeling lonely
Watching him walk, solitary, down the street
There’s a hollowness to his back
And a sadness in his step
Every footprint he leaves fresh in the snow
I imagine trails a bit of ash and regret

I strain to hear, strain to see
The shadow that always precedes him, away from me
There he goes again with his silver tongue
Murmuring something small and strange, mocking me

And like the snake has said to me,
“My dear, you know he sheds his skin weekly.”
Clouds of gray wreathe him and dream there lazily
And he doesn’t look quite surprised to see
Though his eyes, of course, are practiced liars
The fingers he bends are licked by blue fingers of fire

He’s shuddering and twisting, not knowing
That his inverted mirror is certainly cracking
There’s something in him that wants to pierce his walls
Something behind the burning skin that wants to get out

Can I be your sordid little secret?
Can I be the skin you toss so meekly?
Can I be, in that smoky barroom of a dream, the side
Of you that you want to tear away and die
When you know there are no partial suicides

I follow him there every night
I guess you could say I’ve become a bit of an admirer
I sit and stay there till my eyes are shining bright
’Cause at the heart of every tragedy is getting your heart’s desire.


Note: Two people not to confuse in this poem are the narrator and me.
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