(Whisper, whisper.)
I wonder, how many nasty cuts would it take to make my face unrecognizable ? Of course, it would scar, but it wouldn't hurt to try. But it would, but why does it matter ? I could take a ruler and a square, trace out parallel lines and become a living reference. I could go without a care, turning myself into something other completely, a hazard. People would stop and look, I know this. But isn't that the price to pay for beauty ? Finally, as my wounds scar up, it will hurt to move them. I'll only have to keep this up, forever and ever, constant cuts, for my muscles to understand that they should not move anymore, that this painful sting will not go away until they lock and cramp up. Finally, finally, I won't embarrass myself further.
I'd like to stitch my mouth closed, too. But that idea doesn't appeal to me as much, I much prefer the look of a gash on skin. The idea remains. I would like to keep my mouth shut. It's easier said than done nowadays. The voice that escapes me is not mine, I know it is not mine, I have not recognized it in so many years. No matter how much I want to ease it into my true voice, it always morphs back, rebellious, into this impersonator that's taken my spirit over. My life, the stage, my body, the actor, trapped into a comedy, trapped in the bag, where I am forced to take hit after hit. Hit, after hit, after hit, after hit. My voice, that everyone listens to, is an illusion. It should have been given someone else. How do I make it mine ?
I am tired. I am lonely. There is no other way to describe it, no other metaphors I could use.
Stop looking at me. It stings.

-DVN 02/09/2025

(Whisper, whisper.)
I've been afraid to clean out my closet. I've been afraid, because I think there are skeletons in there. I've been afraid to clean under my rug. I've been afraid, because I think there is dust under there.
I would rather not be known. My mother is always worried when she sees me, because in the corner of her eye, I see this glint of worry, of sadness; she is a rowdy creature, she turns up the volume to try to catch a smile on my face. I am a quiet creature, one who is often sorrowful and temporary. She will not see the smile on my face, and she will not see the skeletons in my closet. My name has never been spoken, and I don't expect it to be, perhaps it is better this way. Some names are never meant to be uttered, not out of fear, danger or disrespect, but out of principle.
...Oh, there's someone that likes you out there ?
How odd. You shouldn't think about it too hard.
I cover my ears.
I hope I will not be here tomorrow. What sort of impression would that give, at such at important meeting ?

-DVN 01/09/2025