i have your mask so that i can honor you when i feel afraid. the world has turned to hell while you're in heaven and i ask god how it is you're doing in such a place; but you know him - he never answers. the ghosts walk out into the open now and the thieves blend in with priests and our friends; so you can imagine how wide i keep my eyes open since you've been gone.* I stare at my ruined skin and pray it will stay this way; i pray that everything will stay this way until i die. you see the hero left this world and while i wait for the villains to come and demand my head in their hands, all i do is spend this money and drink everything it is that i can. As i skip over the clorox and chamomile tea he'd always suggest i drink; i think to myself, "who the fuck do i have to turn to?" the eyes of these people stare right at me and act as if they know how to care; but like monsters - they have their own life to battle. i have my chainsaw and my helmet we made; i just don't have the soul that's needed to fight. i order these men to touch me; you know, so that i can feel alive. the boundaries are always crossed, but i think thats the magic of being permitted to stay alive when you're dead - everything's evil and empty. lucky stars don't exist anymore, neither do words like "we" and "ours." the terrain is rough and unkind, it mocks me and mimics my heart. As i look around; i see nothing - i feel not a thing. you see the mother i always talked about has more important things to handle then her wounded solider - but silly me to think that this (I) am important enough. What not one single person realizes is that i do very much wish to die though the gypsy woman told me that if i did it myself i wouldn't be able to ever see him again - so that's my dilemma. so now i must find away for someone else to kill me.