May words roll out of me with the sly pacing of a sociopath. The black snakes that live between my teeth work endlessly to emulate the speech of men.
I mimic the self control of the thing hiding inside Joseph Stalin.
My blinks have become mechanically linked to my nervous system so that my eyes close and open at 7/10 the speed of other people because if I were to blink the way my spine tells me to, I’d be one step closer to lethal injection for my collective slander.
I move hunched over and I stretch entirely more than my muscle deem useful because if I move at full speed I would be locked away for mania, or come just that much nearer to ripping the jaw off of the next person that complains about something that is their own fault.
I’m proud of the endless improvisation that no one sees through.
The life like mask I wear over my burned and dead face looks so honest and sincere that no one suspects the fractured, twitching of exposed tendons and paper thin skin underneath.
The white powder I spread over my cold grey flesh is just within the borders of believeable. My fangs are filed down with impossible precision. My horns are split along their individual fibers, to form hair, with sledge hammers that smash my face into a socially pleasing arrangement.
I don’t kill them. I don’t hold them down in my unhinged jaws. I don’t claw their flesh away from their bones with iron nails that hold my form together. I move slow. I blink long.
Why? Why do I hold back? Why don’t I thrash against the world and watch it fall to ruin under the waves of my tireless violence?
I want to watch them do it to themselves.
(written from the point of view of the thing living inside Charles Bukowski)
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