The Death of Smoochy

I have always been fascinated by the rantings of those who let us feel with their words; as if their own lips and spit were enough to change the patterns of the UNIverse, stall time, and create a unique twist in the fabric of our minds that would help each of us catch our breath. But while I ponder now I prefer to feel the silence, one coated in the hum of white noise plugging my ears from sanity. Noise that only I can communicate with. The noise of persistence, the noise of compassion, of my own thoughts, my values, and of acknowledgement of what can become. It doesn’t feel so much like terror now as it is invited into each living cell of my body. Rough and intent on ripping through my flesh so there’s nothing left to be found. And yet I feel no pain, no discomfort, just uniformed breathing, like an underwater symphony conducted by my lungs and orchestrated by my glowing organs. For in this silence that drips down my eyes like golden honey I am reminded how sweet I can be, not to you, but to me. I taste the efforts and I sway into the noise of love.

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