It's hard to tell where I am with my eyes closed, but I think I'm at your door, my imagination painting pictures from the palette of undecipherable noises. Next time you leave the fallible security of your tree house, I hope you see the noisy portrait I left for you on your door.
Whether you've gone or not, I'll be there. In the corner wearing my indifferent obsession, behind the guise of smoke and glitter.
You don't even realise I'm pulling your strings, operating every fall for my own sardonic pleasure.
I am the breath erecting goosebumps along your wooden spine.
I am the maquillage upon your splintering face, the termites behind nibbling away...
I am the moonlight in February, reminding you of your biggest mistake.
The pigeon who brings your messages, that is also me. I tamper with them before I deliver, pecking at the truth to create prettier words to pollute you with.
Ventriloquist, too tired to throw my voice anymore. One last time... Can you catch it?
Do you recognize the silhouette in the mirror? The shadow of the rainbow in June? The discarded teddy bear, now a buffet for maggots?
I painted this scene, and I can easily erase it. White-wash with my obsession, delusion.
I need to start again.
Just give me more blood and noise to paint with.
I hate that I miss you.