Confession

I'm talking to them. Just not in ways they can't hear. Jesus pudding is chocolate. Satan is vanilla. Love is neopolitan. Both of them and something else.

The end is caramel. Burnt sugar. Sweeter than it's ever been. I'm only condoning suicide if it's the best the solution. Like in most cases. Most people. Bipolar clown faces drawn over the actual ones.

The exaggerated outlines I call lovers turning my fear into art. A palette knife always under her tongue. Ready to caox the mountains from the flood. The canvas between her legs still as blank as the first time she opened them.

Perdition only makes sense when you believe in redemption. Otherwise it's just masturbating until it hurts.

I'm not a clown, but I know how to wear the makeup. I'm not god, but I know what he's thinking.