Nocturnal Streams of Consciousness II: Dear Self.

But think about it, dear Self
When have you ever been the priority and not the option?

I am the rain that washes away rusty tears.
The lake on which your corpses float, swollen.
I am a forlorn Erato, maybe her long lost twin sister whom the great writers have forgotten.
Erato, muse of Oblivion and doleful poetry
I am the pale body floating downstream embracing Ophelia's flowers
Goodnight, Sweet Ladies, Goodnight!
Have some poppy, my dearest
Sink into a slumber to forget
that you will wake up to the Ninth Infernal Circle
Have some more poppy, my dearest
sink again, deeper, sink, sink.

But think about it, dear Self
it has never been your fault.

Yes, it has not. Have you not wondered why your feelings have turned to stone?
Entombed, they lie at your very core, granite, untouchable, intangible.

Yes. I feel safe. I feel sane. I feel like they cannot get to me. They cannot draw me in. They cannot lure me.
They cannot. They will not.
Hello? Is it me I'm looking for?

You will not lose yourself. I will not let that happen. I'd rather turn myself into stone than see you give in and hold me out for the daylight to rape me.

But think about it, dear Self
A facade this is and nothing more.
Because here I am, vomiting words of pain.
Whence do they emerge?
You are as vivid and livid and liquid as ever.
I cannot lie to myself.
I am alive, I feel and I am drawn in
and no poppy
and no slumber
and no facade can change the fact
that this blood-pumping organ

yearns.