a mirror to your face, a prickle to your nape

We all hold hands with murderous intent

tra

ci

ng

the line between good and evil

like 

we have the right to step over it at any time. creatures who are toujours dans la lune, beautiful dreamers who

scatter their ashes over the peripheral boundary of things we

                                                                                                    know

                                                                                                           and

                                                                                                                don't.

we are alive and dead at the same time (boxed up felines, poison leaking into our lungs)

whispering like hypocrites

into the middle of the night

so that someone will come for our souls and turn our second face to the world.

we smile at each other and draw   d             s

                                                             a         r

                                                               g    e

                                                                  g

from our venomous tongues

and keep on

pretending

in this theatre

of ours

that all the world's a stage,

and we're the final act.