Mirage

. . .

in the context of continuity, are you a figment of my imagination? does the horizon extend only because that's what my mind asks of it? is this what it asks of you? it must. the empty space that lacks the beauty so many desire has been filled with daubs of color I have not seen until your eyes met mine a week ago. you are a mirage. my mirage. my creation. I have made something out of nothing: you. beautiful boy. tufts of sable cloud soft brows that furrow sympathetically to match the sorrow pooling from a black ocean confined by weaving threads of cerulean—your eyes. they watch my every motion as if I have a bounty on my head, darting across my features as if I, too, am beautiful. but you can't flatter me, beautiful boy. I can't be fooled so easily. I won't bow to you the way your upper lip bows to me. oh, boy, why do you breathe that way? even your breath is beautiful, dulcet like a birdsong, but not near as intrusive. you must know that I've been wanting to hear this breath of yours. you must know that I've been wishing to steal it in my own. is this why your mouth has fallen open? is this a gap you wish for me to fill? simple enough. in the context of continuity, you will fill that gap even if I refuse, and there is no room for artifice now, boy. I will grant you this reality as you have granted mine. your rose petal lips have become my reality now, for I do not wish to know anything else. it is the truth: you are my finest creation. my beatitude. why must you taste like this? vanilla. you taste and smell like vanilla. the flesh of your neck is elastic and unmalleable. there is no mark, no indent when I kiss you. you are not like the rest, beautiful boy, for the rest do not understand. they do not hold strong as you do, do not complete the barren emptiness with beauty as you have done now. you do not melt to me as they have done. look at my hands, boy. look at this mess. their mess. do you see it? they have made art out of me when it is not what I asked. isn't it awful? I will say it again: you are not like the rest. you do not sink into a puddle of wax at my feet. you do not paint me with lies and false virtue. look me in the eyes, boy. kiss me. yes—it is as if you are made of vanilla. perhaps that, too, is my doing. it is my mind, isn't it? my mind that made you. are you thankful? no, don't do that. why do you do that, beautiful boy? you know it makes your eyes red, that brilliant shade of muted incarnadine that has tinted your nose and flushed your neck. it is beautiful on you. but you know it's a sight that hurts me. your eyes cannot wet. I fear they may melt as the others have, melt like smears of blue and yellow. oh, boy, don't turn yourself away. you know you can't run from me, don't you? so don't run. face me. face your maker and allow him to admire you. you are only perfection in his mind; remember that. you are immune to criticism beneath his gaze, but susceptible beneath others. and I can't save you then. I can't save you from their experiments, their exams and their interviews. that is the worst reality, isn't it? I have saved you from it and I will not save you again. so be grateful to me. allow me to graze my lips along your collar, to breathe purpose into your ear. I am your purpose, boy, just as you have become mine. you no longer must feel trapped in the chains of society—no, boy, do not look at those. these manacles are not the same. these are to keep you safe. don't you cry. your skin is too soft beneath my thumb. your tears taste like cinnamon. are you trying to taunt me? listen. this is a better life for you. you no longer must fret about time. there is ample. we have eternity. doesn't that make you happy? oh, boy, you make me happy. yes, you must be real. I couldnt be so sure before. I've been tricked, you see. but I am certain now. your lips have not disintegrated like the sugar you place on my tongue, and I cannot seem to reach the bottom of your eyes. your eyes! does my mind extend the abyss that lies within them? is it what my mind has asked of you? continuity. it's sickening. tell me with your beautiful voice, boy. are you real? had your screams been real? my mind is despotic. you sound real. with those tremors, the sincerest quiver of lips, you must be real. mm, boy, you still taste of vanilla. part your lips and allow me again. quit this nonsense. are you aware of how wonderful your neck feels within my hands? I can take it now—yes. like this is their intention, like they have been molded to clasp you by the nape and pinch your trachea between their digits. beautiful boy, you sound so vulnerable when you're breathless. do not look at me like that. like I'm a villain. you, too, have established control over me, have fixed shackles to my wrists the moment you smiled. it had been your intention to taunt me. you wanted me to chase you, is that right? but now that I've caught you, you want free? how can you take advantage of me like this? it is remorseless people like you who have instilled suffering in the world. do not forget that I made you. you had been nothing but a curation intern. and now look at you! my personal assistant. my art piece. I should hang you from the wall, shape you into clay, but I will not do such a thing. oh, are you short of breath, boy? you're losing that vibrancy, the tint of your cheeks—have you grown accustomed to my lips? they still feel wonderful pressed to yours. you can't be a figment of my imagination. you have always been art, but since you cannot seem to obey, I have no choice but to subject you to the scrutiny of the critics. are you losing your vitality? your strength? what happens if I press my thumbs deeper into your neck? your eyes have become hideous. do you see what happens when you grow entitled? the color you once had has dwindled into a hideous montage of whites and grays. this is karma. I hope you know that. it is a shame you still smell this way. your hair is a wispy blend of silk and cotton and it smells far too heavenly for you to be real. but you are. you're real, boy. you are not an effect of continuity. my mind would not paint your eyes that strained shade of pink, would not color you the pallor of a cadaver. oh, beautiful boy, you listen so well after a scolding. you sit so still. if I remove my hands now, will you make a wise selection? please understand that we cannot have you wear eyes so pink in the exhibit. there are plenty of marbles to choose from. but, beautiful boy, I'm unsure any marble could match the azure of your irises. are you fond of a light brown? a hazel, perhaps? I believe hazel would fit you spectacularly. do you agree, beautiful boy? it's rude to ignore your maker. I suppose I will select for you; hazel is unbeatable. why the long face? don't fret it, boy. you'll get an exhibit of your own as any true beauty deserves. does that appease you? I will even allow for you to select your preferred fiber. wood wool, foam, cotton, hemp. . . though I believe hemp will fill your skin wonderfully. oh, beautiful boy. . . I couldn't have chosen anyone better. my finest creation. you.

allow me to kiss you once before I must pin your lips. . . beautiful mirage.