Merry Christmas, Madeline...
You’ve mercy-killed my every lie.
And mercy me, I find that I believed them more than you did.
Take me back to the last time snow fell; I fell,
no tell of the hell I feigned…
completely my construction, contorted but coaxing no call for my conscience to croon condemnations to a craving, eager crowd.
They say guilty.
Realizing my devising on this airplane Christmas day, I weigh every word we decided to say (in frustration, in anger, in remorse, in confusion). It would appear the universe does not revolve around me, though I am still doubtful.
I am, after all, invincible
ignoring addiction
ignoring depression
ignoring fault
ignoring death
denying the days when
I am my own worst enemy. When I cannot claim immortality.
And as the ever increasing turbulence shakes my hand, I trade my pen for prayers that the plane lands soon.
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