Nothing ever came so easy as the manipulation of her

word. Cold and humiliated, I tried to portray this

mess. I should fear it. I should give it all to them

and be done with it. I fear he maybe found a use. A

meaning or comprehension. Some sort of new birth or

late coming death. Who's eyes will govern this

judgment? It's just not my place to judge who tried or

to condemn who cried. I want to be her. I want all of

the answers. A crusty and scratchy mess shielded only

by burlap and the satisfaction of knowing. But I know

nothing. I am the impostor. The fake bastard holding

on to dreams. I want all the answers. I won't wince at

each neck's snap nor help at the hint of hope, I'll

just lie here wet and willing to provoke you. Still no

closure. Cold is so damn trite and evil was never

glamorous. Still it sells so fucking buy it as

politics mean nothing now. As it's already in their

heads. In their hands it resides a mark. So I leave

mine as well to finally be picked apart. Dissected and

forgotten. Ignored at best. But it's still a mark. She

gave me rope and I climb.