Afeared

He has me, mama! He has me!

Ne’er a day devoid of dreadful weeping—Mournful Sorrow claps to applaud Misery whilst it dances its best on the stage called my life. The blanket of hope has long since been immolated to keep the venomous fireplace alive. The very one I warm my hands with to stave off the brittle existence that lurks upon my shoulders. I am but a lost and forlorn entity ripe with exhilarating sadness. Hoorah to the masses who plague my mind with their incessant banter.

“Duh-duh-duh-duh.”

“My head hurts.”

“I should slit my arm right down the middle; the portion that protects my vital veins.”

“Disappearing for a while sounds nice.”

“Why?! Why did you take him?!”

“Come back to me, please. . .”

“I’d be happier dead in the dirt—I don’t have a mind to care for the how. Just get it done.”

“Will I wake up after I take this? I hope not.”

Oh, and the bells that ring randomly! What abhorrent music—what feebly enriching harmonies! Smiles force themselves upon my face, as my mouth spews lies of goodness. “Everything is aright, so don’t worry. I promise.” Fuck. I always forget about the spontaneous vibrations that mimic my phone’s notifications. They charm me so, for I can never discern what is truth and what is merely figments of truth. Perhaps the truth sprouts from the broken branches bellowing beneath burning blades of ire and begrudging “ONWARD!”

What fallacy must I comprehend to circumvent this hell? What veracity must I accept to breathe the same air as my soulmate once more, forevermore? There’s naught—nothing but bleak wallowing and shallow puffs of smoke. My tears bite my bottom eyelids and bleed them dry every day. And then at the end of each day, they nourish them with themselves. How audacious. Do my tears feel no empathy or sympathy towards the damnable epitome of my soul? Do they not harbor salvation rather than further laceration? The lashes of their carelessness haunts me like a blood moon. O’ when will it signal this king’s demise, so that I may know the tenderly ripe fruit of my destiny?

It’s all fear, you see. Naught more, nothing less. Perverse thoughts that carry out endless sieges of blackened pyre which combusts into quiet explosions that go unseen, despite its grand magnitude. It’s maddening, really. To know that I am forced to walk this dreaded existence devoid of my one true love—my soulmate. What terror—what bleak fortune—what horrendous turmoil. And at every corner’s turn, I find there, sitting ever so leaden, the version of myself that barely broke through the day. He’s battered and bloodied beyond recognition. What once was glorious locs, is now a matted mess of negligence and malignant incompetence. What once was a robust and muscular figure, now sits a brittle form overflowing with mites and ghoulish debris. His skin visibly crawls with waves of delirious insects that desperately scurry to find any remaining scraps from the siege that they might plump up on. His eyes are a colorless fog deep with noisy depression. That chocolate skin of his has long since greyed and become repugnant mold.

Is it not all frightening? For this is what true fear is—and mistake me not—I do not mean the fear of insects, or fire, or death, or even loneliness. There’s nary an ailment that could be bred on Earth that warrants my fear. This fear is one that shackles my soul and forces centipedes to lay eggs in its veins and feast upon its innards. The fear gropes my soul’s testicles with hands wrought of thorny, sick iron and strokes its phallus with perforated, barb-wired lemons. I fear for my soul’s existence, in the sense that once I pass on from this life, I may never be reunited with my prince.

I, on the bone marrow of my knees, beg God nightly and daily to reunite me with him once I finally breathe my last ragged breath. But how heard are my prayers? How seriously are they taken? What will the beginning after the end be like for me? If it isn’t in his arms, and he in mine, then what? These questions only serve to strengthen the vigor and vitality of my fear. Merely boons that sound booms of black-hearted triumphant victory…But where is the promise of hope—the promise of reunification?

Until such time of death kisses my lips and walks me off of my life’s stage, I must despair and drudge through this shitty existence. I am to continually climb the highest spire and leap from it with faint faith guiding my body, and fictitious hope whispering good nothings all the while. May my love’s visage be the manic dream that distracts me from the terror of this life that plagues me. May my beau’s love be the sturdy string that makes my fall less painful. May my resplendent prince’s soul be what greets mine when I magnificently die.

He has me, mama…he has me…