The Process
I stand cold and sterile, almost medical
Like a cadavar or a mannequin
A sea of moons eclipsing periodically
They look like beads, floating on a sea of plates
Why are people so white in a glare when naturally
They're so dull and grey like so much ash?
Light is a liar. Light is deceptive.
Under such a tide of it I must look virginal
I am stripped and sink into the sickness I feel welling deep within me
Like porcelein, I am naked
Surrounding myself with a case of words
All of them written in my childish handwriting
Like some form of finger-painting made by lonesome lepers for the blind
Awaiting critique as I slowly drown
We do what we must do
And écorché ourselves in the process.
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