you were intrigued by him for one reason
and one reason only.
he would always whisper
the most revolting things
in your ear,
things that made you cringe
at just the thought.
you couldn't even dream these things up.
and no amount of horror flicks
or disturbing stories before bedtime could get these things into your dreams.
even after you took the dreamcatcher over your pillow down
and threw out all of your good luck charms,
you still couldn't even dream these things up.
and when the doctor told you
your concious wouldn't let you die in your nightmares,
you found a way to get around it.
so you shoved knives into all the major ateries
behind curtains.
your death, just a silhouette.
your mortality, just a vague idea.
and you still couldn't even dream these things up.
using the lavender wall of your childhood bedroom
as a screen,
you had a showing
of the gun in your mouth and your splattered brian matter and the bloody mess.
all of this, only in shadows cast by candle-light.
your death, just silhouette.
your mortality, just a vague idea.
and you still couldn't even dream these things up.
and you heard yourslef screaming and you could feel your flesh searing and you could smell the stench,
the god-awful stench,
but the room was so dark and you ran in circles looking for a light switch so you could see,
you just needed to see,
but the room was so dark.
your death, just a silhouette.
your mortality, just a vague idea.
and you still couldn't even dream these things up.
so you kept trying and trying
until you ran out of ideas
and came to the realization that
for every wet "s" he slurred
and for every speck or bubble of saliva he spit
onto the side of your face or into your hair,
was a horrible idea you'd never be able to even match.
you couldn't even dream these things up.
[ah, the joys of creative frustration.]

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