With ink of concentrated rage and quills of hopelessness, I created and conceived you, ultimately putting you on parchment, infusing you with life.
You are my delusion, my outward wall, my indulgence in illusion, my house of mirrors.
You are my sanctuary, hiding me from the world, and I’m your precious refugee.
Like a skull your empty grin flashes to reality; you shield my rotting self, my frazzled personality, the hideous perversity of my being from detection.
For this I pay you in colors, glow, intensity and shape. I give you depth, perspective, just so nobody can see, that I am just the emptiness in the shell that I created.
Nothing but a waft of putrid air.
Whichever way you look at it, whatever angle your perspective is, you simply are my casing.
And whenever your color brittles and chips, when you’re injured, broken and slit open, I pour out of the holes left behind by harsh words and careless actions.
I am the pus streaming from your wounds, a black, scalding hot, co