Burns, burns, burns.
Hand fiddles with cigarette.
Can the pain inside ever be felt by your body, by your container?
eyes turn away from the inferno, into the abyss of easy distraction, of polite society
No, don’t do that.
reluctant focus. Uncomfortable attention. You delight. Your companion is not as lost as she would believe
Don’t hide behind vain arguments either. My words don’t matter. You know that. Only one thing matters and always matters and you know how to read that.
Suppose the pain inside is so big, so heavy, so encompassing, that a few scars on your arm, ink on your neck, sores on your throat don’t cut it anymore? What if the only thing that can match the inferno within you is the inferno than engulfs you?
you light the poor cigarette. You see his eyes follow the flickers long after they’ve disappeared into your throat and nose. You see it, clearly, falling on your fuel and skin and become the inferno in question. There’s a vulgar justice to that image that’s as irresistible as heroics and chivalry
I can do you a favour now and empty this bubbly on you. But no. That would be murder. Is is even possible to murder a suicidal maniac? And no, you don’t get to differentiate suicide and sacrifice.
you stop fiddling with the glass and turn your eyes back into a politer world of chiffons and scandals
You lie. About pain, about your body and spirit. You seek an audience, you seek immortality and trps. Today you burn for your country, tomorrow you arson for your cause, but the only thing that remains is the applause. I wonder how it feel to take bows in the afterlife.
you raise your eyes towards a young pretty thing, eyes stalking lazily, death is an uncomfortable aphrodisiac
You whore your soul for the mystique of the misunderstood and cringe at the crassness of sincerity. You can never understand our martyrs who swallowed the hatred thrown at them and burnt with them. Silent in their protection.