they are all in love with the conception of me,

standing lofty to my demons like I was rational enough

to look up at the sky and love them all.

they try to pull on the texture of my skin and

sink me somewhere deeper--somewhere where pain

and pleasure was seen as one.

faded visuals of me, run through their heads

like i was a savior, dark and a mystery goddess.

a saint with demonic words, that come across

as only a 'writer on a paper'.

but they don't see it.

they, don't see the way the papers in my hands

are burning and turning into ashes.

they don't see the way the flames are flaring my skin,

because humans are known to be selfish, as they fall down

to their needs and desires.

i might be;

a lost soul they might admire, but do they really try to understand?

do they really try to understand the way i swallow back the poetry

on my tongue or the bloodstained tears that stain my cheeks at night?

why do they have to be so cruel to.. try and understand?