What are tears? What is their point? Pain can be bled out more efficiently; bled out in beautifully symmetric pools of scarlet.
Long sleeves. Such a simple disguise, really. What? Yes, I can change my form; I can form my own clothes. I can change my own sex if I want. It's not a problem. But that's not the point.
Here's the thing…My life, like my many changing forms, has a way of turning out to be nothing more than a dream. A sick fantasy. I once had dreamt that I was the prince of Asgard. I once dreamt that I had a father, a loving brother, and a caring mother. What happened? Well, one day I woke up, and saw my life for what it was: nothing more than a fractured, shapeless form of reality. A shadow, a dream.
Everything in life fades. Anything can be faked. How much of your life is real? What have people told you about it…about you? What about your parents? Do you trust them? Can you be sure that everything they're telling you is an unadulterated truth? What about your lover? How many times have they crooned "I love you" into your ear simply to entice you into their chambers? How do you know they're not just telling you what you want to hear? Most beings can pick up on what others want to hear. It's not difficult, really, it just takes a little bit of practice. I suppose that I, the silver-tongue, should know that better than anyone. Should I not?
Everyone needs something real in their lives. Something they can trust without question. Physical, tangible, unchanging: an anchor to show you reality. Reach up. Touch your face. That's real, isn't it? Your face doesn't change form at your behest. Find a mirror. Look for yourself. Reach down. Touch your toes, if you can. Held against the ground by the force of gravity; anchored into their proper place.
How am I to find such an anchor when my body is so capable of change? How can I remind myself of what is real? How do I separate that from lies elaborately told, transcribed to be the truth? I run fingers across my face; I feel the shape of my jaw move and change. I reach down, touch my toes, knowing I can change their size at will. Do I have a natural form? Of course I do. But what if I forget that? What if the lines of my reality become so blurred that I can no longer separate what is real and now, from what is a fantasy from my past?
I roll up the sleeves I have formed. Relax until I feel natural. Is it real? How do I know it's real? I run a blade down the length of my wrist, letting the blood and the pain ground me in reality. Tears sting against my eyes, and I let them clear. What's left? The scars, of course. The scars can show me just how real, how natural this form is. A hundred times over. I release the blade. I run a finger down one scar, and then another, allowing their shape, their feel, their…reality to ground me.
This is real. This pain is real. The only difference between this and my other pain? This pain fades quickly, washing my body with a wave of ecstasy as the endorphins kick in. Other pain is not so simple to rid myself of. It's not physical; it's not tangible. How do I know it's real? Why, I can see it carved a hundred times over, hidden beneath a simple long-sleeve.