Falling Off The Edge

The thing about being a stalker, is you live a half life, you turn into a ghost, and you're not there anymore.

Not really.

You blend into beige walls, you disappear into shadows and your smile...what smile?

Nobody can do anything about it.

Nobody can save you.

Some try. They shouldn't. Because they can't.

You are a country blasted apart by a bomb and everywhere around you there are only shards, smithereens.

Only you can pick through the debris and rebuild.

Only you.

But it's so hard.

And you won't.

So you look outside yourself for an answer, for someone to save you, take you out of this life, if only for a moment.

You get so sick of the ruins.

But how do you escape from you?

You can't.

You're there.

Still there when you wake up in the morning in a strange bed, shivering, wondering who, wondering what, wondering why you did it all over again.

The body, if there is a body next to you, is cold, unyielding, strange.

And you just want to leave.

Disappear.

Scrub out the encounter from under your skin. Scrub until there are scratches running down your body, scrub until there is blood running down the scratches.

That's what you want to do.

And you let yourself bleed into the ground, watching the blood seep away, turning into a ghost.

But still that country, annihilated by the blasting bomb, that country's there, waiting for you to return, rebuild...but you can't.

Not without love.

And there is no love left in you.

Only obsession.

So you become a creature of night.

Shadowy, insubstantial, weightless.

So you stalk another, borrowing a life, for a few moments, emerging from the dead, only to go back tomorrow.

There is no now. There is no tomorrow. You cling on to the moments with your fingernails. The moments slip away.

You tear great holes into your body.

What body?

You're not even there.

And if you disappear tomorrow, don't worry.

Nobody will notice.