It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality. -Virginia Woolf

This facsimile heart is a black creature. A potion. A sorrow. A song. It is the negative part of a photograph, cut into tiny pieces and then dilated in a solution, so rich that the original picture quivers with grief. It can feel the redundancy of the cliche , the pattern of black birds on white skin. This victim vows to undulate back and forth through the lens. Power,paper, purpose, paper, phantom. It does not die because it does not exist. It is an illusion.

My negativity is a phantom creeping across the arid tundras of my psyche. I see the mirage before me, rippling, taunting. But I am so thirsty. Thirsty for anything. Even the minutest amount of attention. Even that negativity, following me through the desert, hiding behind craters and sand dunes, miraging the moon with his shadow. Where is my reality to save me? If I touch it will it turn to dust? So, I touch myself and feel the world inside of my start to crumble,shatter,bubble. The burning is so intense, fazed, I wander over to my phantom, standing taller before me, and kick sand in his face. He persists,dissolving a little into me, and then fiercely towering with absolution. This is me. I am the reality, burning away.

See this flesh. It is divine. This reality. This is mine. My body. Chasing phantoms. Prey to the erotic savages of my mind. Brooding, and breeding. Bleeding me. Immortal.

Smell this flesh. I want to smell it without the taint of negativity, give it life, blood like water. Face like moist grass pressed into bare fragrant skin.

Feel this flesh. It must stop chasing phantoms. And feel. It is divine.