Today I am fuchsia. Appalling and implicit like dried blood. My hopes are theatrical and metaphysical. They rise like wildfire. Spontaneous. Devastating. Essential. Today I spoke of my childhood, about what it means to grow up in a world governed by pathogens. Today I spoke of survival. Of breaths furiously drawn and tenaciously held. Of a life where silence kills. Of a life where silence is the only means of survival. I spoke of a protracted suicide played out meticulously in the bowels of a wounded psyche. Today I found the strength to express my incarnation of the Devil.
I have survived, an Ouroboros. Needs unheeded and unmet, I existed at my own expense. Sometimes I wonder if there is anyone left inside of me? But in my heart I know that I am inexhaustible. Tenacious. A weed. Greeting the sun somewhere between concrete and infinity. No man of flesh and blood has ever scared me quite so much as myself. What potentiality nests inside these tainted genes? What demons lie in opposition to my sanity? The quintessential soldier who endures because an ill-timed exhalation is synonymous with treason. I know how to survive. My defenses are honed and well-articulated.
Living is imperative. A gift long unopened for fear of termination and now here I sit with a box full of unspoiled minutes uncertain of the worth of my tentative schemes. What does it mean to be alive? To be human? What does it mean to forgive oneself? When that self has grown so accustomed to guilt? I am not strong, these confessions, for which my survival now depends are the means by which I withdraw the venom. Left to fester I would die from within, every hollow exponentially expanding, every teardrop, a vestigial sea intent to swallow.