Corpses with pulses prefer sleeping in morgues, they don’t dream, even if they do, they don’t remember a thing. Even if they do, they smoke their memories out.
***
Their muscles ache, although they know tumbling will sooth the knots, they reject looping the loop, as their identity is dependent on the deep wounds they proudly cary around to justify the toxic codependent relationship they have with their beloved misery, healing them is scary as heaven, as they blindfoldedly believe that they belong in hell.
***
Even if their core is worthy of handshakes, they fill their scars with handkerchiefs, and they are never made of silk. What they think they deserve is synthetic, because they find it peaceful imagining the vast wildfire that may start when a bit of funk from a volcanic eruption drips onto their synthetic handkerchiefs.
***
Although they seem to be impatient about their death, they don’t have the guts to put the fullstops for themselves. Rather, they talk the talk, thanks to the infinite amount of commas gifted by the grim reaper. When they are asked to walk the walk, they finally loop the loop, turn the table around to delicately dodge the question.
***
They reject confronting with the ones who question the credibility of their words. When they realize the mere exposure of the cowardice lies behind the performed darkness, they cut you off. As naive as they seemed to be, they cut you off in an obnoxiously brutal manner.
***
They would even cut your throat off, only if they were brave enough to hold a knife. They like to pose with a fruit knife tho, but they don’t even bother skinning an orange. Instead they tear it into four pieces, and suck only two, leave the plate behind, without the intention of sharing. They don’t give a fuck about what happens to the rest. They don’t think about others’ stomaches, because they are too preoccupied with the ever-aching bellies of their own.
***
Their bellies are filled with acidic beverages, they can’t chew is the reason why, because they are afraid of the imposed necessity of brushing their teeth afterwards. If they swallow something that was chewed for a little while, they eat a clementine, once again, only the half, compensating the basal origin of the toothpaste, as remaining acidic is essential for their
***
Acidic nature of the belly inhibits butterflies from entering the scene. Which is of course is a nonissue for them. They don’t want any butter in front of their flies. They can’t even stand any butter on their toasts. They actually don’t even toast the toast. They are only good at taking the bread out of the fridge and let it mold. That’s how they invite the butterless flies into the kitchen. Thanks to the contribution of the flies of the ointment, they now have a solid excuse for not being able to host anyone who may intend to bring butter to their molding cave.
***
As irritating as they may sound, you and I, if you made it thus far, find these monsters beautiful. The question then becomes, what’s up with your aesthetic taste? Why do you tend to lick the molding brains instead of the purely nutritious ones? Are you the remedy? If so, isn’t it a sense of delusional superiority?
***
What if it is just a projection party? Who invited you anyways? Why do you insist on bringing butter to a fridgeless fucker? Why do you choose a corpse with a pulse over a vigorous body pumped up by a high BPM heart? Oh, maybe it’s because you are impennous angel… Is this a charity work for your?
***
Or perhaps you were secretly looking for a remedy for yourself? Is there a molding brain circuit under your skull that you have been gladly muting thanks to the loud viciousness of the monster that you voluntarily subscribed for? Who appointed the beauty at the first place? Does eye of the beholder assumption ring a bell? Now yank your eyeballs out, and lick them. What does it taste like? Who tastes like the heinous monster now?
***
Don’t worry it’s not a self-pity party. That’s what they do. And you are not them, remember? Your intentions are pure, just a loving-caring-curing angel lacking the fluffy wings… Have you ever thought, why you were not given the wings at the first place? If you could order a set of wings from Amazon, what would your choice be? Black or white? Leave this text immediately if your answer is white. We are at a self-confrontation party over here. Come back when you are ready.
***
This text is for the ones who insist on choosing the dark road when both of the options are given, and shamelessly accuse the dark road for being foggy, musty, and hazardous. Beloved, what were you expecting? Instead of whining why can’t you learn waking up early, catch the sunlight, have some vitamin D, go back home when the sun starts setting, grab your jar of coconut oil and start your self-care routine til your armpits and heels are moisturized.
***
That’s not you though. You find seeing under sunlight is way too easy. You like the ambiguity factor of darkness, as you are fascinated by your mind’s endless attempts to make a meaningful whole out of scattered dots. That’s how you feel smarter. Seeing yourself as the only one capable of hearing the sublime pulse of corpse-like creatures allows you to overestimate the merits of your ears, as if they are as sensitive as a stethoscope.
***
The thing is, you are as special as anyone else, even the morning persons. And, you are as meaningless as anyone is, even the Davids, both Lynch and Bowie. Remember the eye of the beholder assumption. Put your eyeballs back into their pits. You see? You are not the victim of a story in which characters are chosen by you. It’s just an unfortunate consequence of the way your brain is wired by confused worms, which you may make peace with or try to treat with insecticides. Beware, worms are invertebrates.