i have no

issue

with my compulsion
to pick scabs
to draw
with the bodily fluids
of near

despair.

every day
i shed bits
of myself
to sprinkle
like

dander
across
an otherwise
pleasant
day of nonsensical
meanderings.

but

under the sudden
onslaught
of too many

eyes.

strange orbs
that twitch towards me
like those of
a flounder
moving independently
as i skirt
the silt
of
the river lethe.

prepared.

to judge my words
wrapped
in a decadent
parcel
of
unimaginable beauty.

i quiver
as the fear
gestates
as the world
pounces
upon the imposter.

this is fine
he mutters
into space.

no
it is not
the void
whispers

back.

no

it most certainly
is not
he replies
sadly.