"The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible."
- Oscar Wilde


1. _

You're standing there. You're stripping out of the clothes that stick to broken skin and tacky blood and snag on uncovered fragments of bone; now your skin, now your bones are crashing in a pile around your spirit. Hands tear away your soul, bit by bit, and there's nothing left. 

Except there isn't nothing. 

There's never nothing. The first time it was a dead bird with it's wings crushed out below it at strange angles in defeat. The second time it was torn out eyes, blood vessels and ligaments still intact, still blinking. The third time, the fourth time, all the times after that, images got worse and worse and words can't fill the blanks. 

It's because they want me to see what I am and to help them in what they are - rotten. I am being courted, I am refusing, and I am paying every little consequence. 

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