The nuisance I cause with my tongue out,
in the form of sadism,
to them is the nudity of unattractive looks.
When bitter words cling to their minds like leeches,
sucking their blood,
seemingly pure because they always say what they think.
Where are they now,
those hollow throats,
piled like garbage,
with crumpled morale,
overdosed on imagination,
swallowing only lies to feel worthy?
One degree higher on the truth ladder.
One step closer to the tongue extraction in front of them,
overtaking of everything I have to be.
I’m targeting a circle similar to the identical ones.
No, it’s not an arrow I adore,
it’s not a knife I aim whit,
it’s a razor blade on which
all words are accumulated,
words which the unaccepted are afraid of,
from which the unreliable escape.
Words that don’t have a name,
but they have an accent when they hit the wall of consciousness.
For they are the executioners only of those
who want to walk with severed heads,
with brains spilled on the floor.
No matter in whose remains they roll.
And the truth was always cruel,
just like me,
a tough creation of cracked veins,
the reverse of a man, never the face.
Tongue ripped out of the throat,
rough and raw meat,
pulsing until every word
pierces the veins to emerge
from the sliminess of the pretense
to be constantly silent
about what separates the most.
A tightened lie doesn’t look like itself
when the corset of the truth falls off, right?
Words are digging where no hand can reach,
but they never begin on the lips,
it’s always the tongue,
with various cuts,
created by different screams
that weren’t heard
when they should have been.
All the naked thoughts now spread out,
humiliated and disguised,
too long held in delusion not to hurt others.
With holes dug in the tongue,
where no one can see them,
words lose weeds right out of my throat,
they cut off every root
from which the farce begins.
I tried to stop the bleeding that spilled out of my lips,
but I swallowed every drop,
only to turn them into unspoken.
The teeth are very tightened,
the words are muddy floods,
but those who can’t swim,
it’s not up to me to save them.
They pile up,
they’re disgusted with each other,
they’re forced to vomit
seeing how the tongue
can be completely unsullied
even without a single lie on it.
Still me, still myself.
I couldn’t stop myself.
I proudly open my mouth
and cross with the razor blade
over the last layer of dishonesty,
as the torrent of inexplicable force
continues its course,
not choosing which body to crash,
whose emotions overwhelm
and whose thoughts to split
as if they were an antonym for humanity.
Who decides about it, if not ourselves?
Lips curve into mockery, and tongue
without any significant change,
with too many relevant ones,
proceeds to its true purpose,
not to hold back what’s unnecessary,
not to be deceived by deceptive words,
not trembling at all,
revealing what everyone is disgusted about.
And I knew what I had to do next,
to watch them pull back,
like each previously convinced man
into their one and the only existence,
and the next one,
thinking about repeated lies
because none of us can bite the tongue
and hurt ourselves because we’re too selfish.
I started sewing my lips,
but only to cut the threads with the next scream.
To take that blade in my hands,
and in one move to peel this “theory”
about someone impossible to not mince their words.
And if I cut myself,
at least I’ll know that the blood is mine only.