Her Word, the Truth

...She inhales So her Secret won't yet Slip... Her life was a by-product of my rotting flesh, set in a dysmal still-life where she was my only color. The past was a blur plunged in a hypodermic needle; smoke-filled chambers of thought Coalesce- ideas Congeal. The form she usually held was an open hand, a broken heart, even a bridge Between. Sadly, today she was but a blank piece of burning paper, expressionless. Her facade shimmered before me, ever-changing, as she leapt into my hand, settling into her luminous revelation I ran with and squirm I do, only to consume and remove these criss-crossed truths; static-constraints shackling Inherent definition. She struggled, fading into a deep blue, and just as the light turns green, turns "Is it always this hard, to be just what You Are?" she exhales, exhausted, and jumps from out of my head, crossing unthinkable distance only to splatter her brains and suicide upon the wall of her Readers' Misunderstanding.