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Paradox

I am a puddle.
All my substance is dissolved into this soup of raw emotion and intoxication.
It’s still boiling over the heat produced by the friction of my mind, and it’s ready to be ladled out to serve the death wish of any love drunk throat.
Bubbles surface through this deadly muck like mushroom clouds through this viscous mess, this fuming draught of confusion, misdirected rage, helplessness.
All this insanity is enough to serve a banquet.
It’s all in my head, and its caustic being burns.
Actually, it’s not just in my head. This mess fills me up to the top, bubbling over when I glance into your eyes by accident. Why am I so vulnerable? Those two organic splatters of color are enough to make me seethe in anguish as my vital signs are jolted to schizophrenic pace.
I don’t know if I try to retch or if it’s a sign of want as my stomach crumples into a cavity. I don’t know if I’m scared into vitality or if I jump into life as my core begins to ram itself out of my skin.
How do my muscles twitch at your every movement while my tongue is heavy, stumbling over every word that falls out?
Warmth creeps through my face, pale as the spark that ran through my frame, electrocuting all the ions in my aqueous composition. The spark is still there in the pale surprise of my visage, my nervous eyes overstretched, riveted to every movement of your face. Do this warmth and this electricity kill me or bring me to life?
The color of your eyes matches my machinations. Do they see through the muddy soup of my being that they shock into silence? What do they see in my tenuous, affected calm? I’m sure you see everything underneath this diaphanous shell petrified into absurdity, but can you see this creature that is me, slave to my musings?



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