I Am Not Your Rabbit

He lies. He lies so much that he doesn't know how not to. It's like breathing. Or eating. If he ever tried to stop pretending or drop the mask of being human, he would choke on every word, and he would starve. Like a wolf that goes too long without food. Some of the lies are very beautiful, but don't be fooled. Don't be his rabbit.

A human condor with affection for flies

Heatless constellations winking in his eyes

Quicksilver improvisation

Thorns and deepest alienation

Hidden by a careful smile.

Hollow man with a patchwork past

Fashioned from the corpses of what

Could never last

Driven by ambition

No inhibitions

Nailing rabbits to the floor

Until your hands are sore

Nothingness sucks away my tears

Monstrosities have consoling ears.

You are every chill bump on my skin

Every disquiet scratching to get in

Broken symphonies in every word

And no one else hears

Voices I thought I knew

Adopt sweet tones, sickening sneers.

Grow into a tree

Grow into me

Ashes on your favorite rose

Maggots where affection grows

Soft petals, tickling my lips

Let us lie like this

Until a scream

Ruptures the abyss.

You are a wolf

Severing a spine

You are the spoiled fruit

The wine and dine

You are the plague doctor

But I am not ill.

You are the cypress

No fire could kill.

Enamored with death, empathy not your style

No one sees past the guilt and the guile

Some fall in love with the man in costume

But never see the blood flowers bloom

In the belly of the Big Bad Wolf.

I am not your rabbit.

The End

10 comments about this poem Feed