Ipecac

I write better than you because I hurt better than you. My scars run longer and reach deeper than any ravine you took a picture next to on holiday. Go on and ride the wings of a great eagle. Declare yourself to be airborne. Frenzied appetites will make no difference between your boast and a godlike production that squeezed you in at the last minute. That magic trick does work a time. So dazzle the impressionable minds with your best pantomime of disenchantment, but when they figure out you are just a corporate flourish, a cherry on top that ultimately does nothing to afflict or invigorate the palate; your days of empty pomp will set upon you like dire wolves. Sooner or later the masses will discover your treacherous slight of hand. They will be unkind to your overblown reasons of insecurity. Aside from openly burning all of your works in the streets, they will seek out a true fabricator of nightmare and glamor. Keep studying me for the next look. One day you might tease together a recipe that scrapes the edges of paradise and hell. I turn words into heroine by accident. Nobody taught me, nor will I suffer any kind of media training to direct my trade. When I stick out my tongue, that is your cue to stick out yours. Walk like me, and count my rings. Eat my food. Record my nervous ticks. Decipher anything that I mumble while pacing around in a fugue state. The points of connection are always the parts I do not speak aloud. They are hidden in mental chambers of solid ice and fear. Does this come as a surprise? Mastery is never the point. Everything I do emanates from an incalculable dread that I want another person to hold. It is the kind of terror that lowers the temperature enough for breath to appear as steam. The anguish is real. There is no make up artist to simulate fatigue around my eyes with a brush and powder. Will you reinvent yourself into a crusader of some unpopular movement to siphon victim souls of their legitimate distress? I have watched over all of you forest creatures with the amusement of double speed. I can see you sniffing up the wrong stains, and baring your teeth at the wind. Domestication is not a thing that can be fled in a moment of impulse. The meandering of prepackaged confidence goes is circles when observed without a rehearsal. Before a desire to stretch fills my body, I can see you decompose back into the earth from which you should have never distinguished yourself. If I hold my breath, you will fall to unwell shades blue, then to fatal hues of purple. Shake your hips and sing me a song. Raise your eyebrows and deliver a monologue. Scream at the top of your lungs, then sizzle like bacon. Hold that picket sign so it can be pick up by a multi camera shoot. Do you feel the frigid cold in any of those practices? You won't. Neither would I hope for that kind of cruel authenticity to learn your address. Spit me out before I spoil your stomach in a way that you can never completely restore. There are safer ways to deal with your impurities, which I will not chemically bind to myself. If anything, I would frighten them further into the recesses of your body and mind. It is confounding how so many are eager to be taught of poison.