Permafrost and polar icecaps. Snow blind days masquerading as endless nights. Regale me with too good to be true tales of having worth to another…to someone outside the realm of blood and DNA, beyond the betrayal of my maker. Whisper to my chest, straight through to my inanimate heart, what it feels like to be seen, accepted, unconditionally loved. Insist to my damned being that the matter of existing in the mind of another, to never be too far from their thoughts is a panacea, doing wonders for the condition of one’s soul. Hope seems but a figment of the imagination, a fable of my incoherent thoughts, a mind lost to, for not. But I plead, with all that is unholy for I am wholly undone, allow me this one fortune in a dismantled and reassembled life, to gift another with the wicked foretellings in my laughter, to know words I’ve spoken from my monstrous tongue, have set aflame the ragged remnants of feelings built from the life uninvited, imparting the knowledge that I’ve seen in implausible ideas come horrifically alive, to know the value of their existence isn’t lost on my scarred ideals, and in turn, I could entrust my idiosyncrasies in their care, my death-warmed hands in offering. Oh, to bear witness to our symmetry, an abomination of mortal parameters. Are you out there?
E.A O'Connell
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