It is when I feel the most that I must become stone. That I must harden myself into an impassable, inanimate object that ceases to feel. Stones cannot break, so neither must I. I must change into a crystallised, solidified form that does not ebb with the warmth of emotion like hot blood flowing through veins. I am tasting the bitterness, the black coffee dregs that last indefinitely on your tongue. The pain lingers, tantalisingly slow and delicate like a ballerina dancing in a music box. You draped the noose around my neck and pulled it tight. Now I cannot breathe.
I suffocate.
A happy face is a clown mask with a fake smile pulled up to the ears. Stretched, like the twisting of skin. But beneath the mask everything is charred; black; burned ashes. What is this monster doing inside me? Disguised as a teddy bear but hiding the evil hands, the haunting voice, the figure with the knife.
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