Imagine a personality disorder among the slow crawling and approaching winter frost and embers of hot lava, this mirror and that one, the others, tyres ablaze and the fractured foot and soft array of light coming through our stained-glass church window.
Fancy to be characterized by those who have hate in their bleak hearts and no psychology degree unlike a brilliant girl named Jen. Spy and spark the race-obsessed tiny-eyed hypocrites and coincidental fake online friends and opportunists who use us, people on a hip-hop site full of dullards and uneducated sap seeping from a tree with no knowledge, those who mock the cross and mock us, as if we don't know, your pride and lust, rapists, as if you don't see patterns and traces of faint smoke from the fire that will engulf them, flames in their mouth, it's written, the paradox and puzzles, those of whom who sneer at us for our imperfections whilst ignoring their own abominations and abnormalities, our flaws and things inherently out of our control, a mushroom cloud of emotions and violent explosions almost daily, the carpet bombing of a world entire and blest with daylight darkness, it's beautiful, it is, you should see it and what it looks like to us.
Should we show them a loft we can sleep in if we slept, Heaven and the fat cows in the pasture, the inky drawings and smooth texture of a flat emotion, tell them as if we were created in a lab and not a mimic of God's own image, a prism and prison of the dead, full of sin like every existing human there is, where we live for now there is a haunted lake and broken wagon wheels in the red clay, it's beautiful, it really is.
Imagine not speaking aloud for days, our pouty lips, our childhood trauma, a thought disorder, overt paranoia, Emily and her ribbons of rain, purple underwear, knickers as we say, a fantastically woven social anxiety and derealization, words can slice like razors fired from a shotgun and cut through the bone, we feel, we love and we endure it, each day, beg God, these horrible clouds of an unbearable hurt and sadness and loss that we cannot explain, our heart hurts and will never heal, why would we share that, why do they want to feel what we feel, know what we know, an umbrella and canopy of wild trees that are sick, a transient psychosis, our dead brother, we miss him, our unconventional beliefs and how being alive inside our head is like swimming schools of ghostly lions in the ocean, blood clot colored whales on a black sea.