Still It Sells

Nothing ever came so easy as the manipulation of her
word. Cold and humiliated, I tried to portray this
mess. I should fear it. I should give it all to them
and be done with it. I fear he maybe found a use. A
meaning or comprehension. Some sort of new birth or
late coming death. Who's eyes will govern this
judgment? It's just not my place to judge who tried or
to condemn who cried. I want to be her. I want all of
the answers. A crusty and scratchy mess shielded only
by burlap and the satisfaction of knowing. But I know
nothing. I am the impostor. The fake bastard holding
on to dreams. I want all the answers. I won't wince at
each neck's snap nor help at the hint of hope, I'll
just lie here wet and willing to provoke you. Still no
closure. Cold is so damn trite and evil was never
glamorous. Still it sells so fucking buy it as
politics mean nothing now. As it's already in their
heads. In their hands it resides a mark. So I leave
mine as well to finally be picked apart. Dissected and
forgotten. Ignored at best. But it's still a mark. She
gave me rope and I climb.