Or... no? No little bruises lining your skin, not anymore. You cover those up. No little lines, red, and purple, and blue and silver... no little lines lining your skin like soldiers, like armour. No carefully threaded lips, to be silent, and perfect. No seconds and minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years...
None of it's real, then? None of it's real because it doesn't really matter. And because we can't see it too well, like it's still a little sideways, a little twisted, and contorted, and... like it's just fuzzy, and blurry, and altogether choppy. With little separations, like, comma, after, comma, after, comma, after, comma...
Sing it off, though. Sing it all away, with your silent song, and your colourful skin, with your little lines of armour and shielding, and protection against all that's bad.
And... forget about that lulling ache of soft, stiff and bitter fuzzy, stuffed up pain that radiates from every little purple dot, or handprint, or mark... forget the stinging of those little soldiers on your wrist and leg and ankle and tummy and palm and shoulder and neck and knee, forget it all.
And just, fall into those late-night tv flashing, of the light going flikerflickerflicker across your room, and remember to sink into your bed and pretend nothing's happening, nothing ever happened, and nothing will happen. Remember to melt into the negative molecules, the little spaces in between, and to think about nothing, but the people you love.
And love is... a good thing because it's not what you're thinking about, and why are you thinking about that anyway? I mean, it's so stupid. It's not even real, it didn't even happen. YOU'RE JUST LYING TO YOURSELF! Love is love, meaning you like someone, or they make you happy.
Not... the other way around, and how is that love, anyway? It's just this stupid... this stupid, forecful... well it's not something that you should think about anyway because it's just a stupid thing.
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