these white walls
You breathe in a thousand desperate lies, hold, and exhale a hundred convoluted truths. Each word you speak is honey–dipped tree bark and broken incense sticks. But there is a savior for you, if you're willing to lose part of yourself.
The white walls hum a taunting dirge and you, my friend, find yourself drifting in the cotton confusion because there is an odd smell in the air and it reminds you of too much syrup mixed with copper and it is not exactly an unpleasant smell, but it certainly doesn't taste as sweet as it smells. The scent is accusing, maybe, and the flavor is isolating. It makes you angry and desperate and you are oh-so lonely, aren't you, dear friend? Stuck in this box with nothing to hold onto but that solitarily saccharine fragrance and your own diced fragments of humanity.
When the substance is missing, you swear you can see a million red–soaked cotton balls filling the room and slowly suffocating you, drowning your thoughts and words in their clotting presence. There is water, sometimes, and that helps to drown the cotton webs in your throat and the anxiety filling your stomach, but eventually, the water is absorbed and traps the food you try to eat.
Your wrists hurt, don't they, my friend? With their aggravated pink–sore skin and the cold metal bracelet resting oh-so prettily on the wounds of your own madness.
There is something missing, you know. But that isn't important, right? What you conceal from yourself will only destroy you, after all. No big deal.
And isn't that just perfect?
This whole situation is perfect, you know. It's a perfect demonstration of faux innocence and regretfully concealed realities. It's wonderfully morbid, don't you think?
Oh. I forgot.
You can't give me your opinion, can you? No, because you don't know. You don't know and that will be your downfall.
But being the puppeteer and puppet has always been your talent, right? Manipulating yourself with paper-thin spider strings and zipties to direct your personal tragedy.
Sometimes, in this washed-out cage, you can almost see the Sakura blossoms in the spring. See the vibrant colors and hear the joyous sounds.
But... No, you're still here, where the white walls whisper sinfully and the only color you know is the color of your own blood running down an irritated wrist.
Red and white. The walls are starting to change, you see. Become darker with the sharp sting of madness encroaching on you and your morals.
Here, in this container, you find that your voice shatters with idle insanity and your ears ring with whispered teases from the walls...
Does the floor talk about you behind your back?
No chance.
How so?
I sewed their mouths shut with chain thread and red–rose drops of life when I caught the walls whispering lies.
But this box still clings to that oversweet substance.
It lies, dear friend. But that's not for me to say.
You exhale a thousand convoluted truths and inhale in a hundred desperate lies. Each word you speak is marinated in broken incense and honey-dipped tree bark. But you have forsaken your savior, and lost all of yourself.
What do the red walls say?
The red walls cry out at me in betrayal, for I have forsaken them.
The walls always were so easy to trick. But why?
They spoke and there was the scent of lonesome sacharrine deceit...
Yes, one must be wary of the blood–drenched honey, right, my friend?
Of course.
These red walls always have been able to murmur accusations and righteous rhetoric.
These white walls have always been so innocuous.
These blood–splattered walls always have been oh-so thin...
These fickle walls. One must be wary...
Lest the floor talk to the wall and spread gossip about you, right, dear friend? The walls are flimsy companions.
And the scent of coppery sugar is never far away.
The substance follows the walls. The white walls with the red color and the memories of cotton balls.