Morning polish on my teeth,
my skin pulled tight around a hollow mannequin grin
that fits this tailored suit too well.
Cards on the table, cards in my pocket,
little white tombstones stacked with names
I want to watch go still.
Every compliment sticks to my face like tape
while my mind rearranges furniture, bodies, plastic,
and a very quiet drill.
I nod through the boardroom chatter
while an inner voice paces in circles,
tapping on my skull,
whispering who I should kill.
They only see the haircut, not the hammer in my head.
They hear my harmless laughter, not the marching of their dead.
I smile for the body count no one else can see.
Every joke they crack just sharpens something restless inside me.
I walk through crowds like a wolf in a rented human skin,
shaking hands, taking notes,
plotting how and where and when it all caves in.
Restaurant candles flicker on her lips
while my thoughts draw chalk lines under her chair.
She talks about charity, galleries, love,
I picture soundproof walls
and a polished axe resting by the bedroom door.
My hand brushes hers, she thinks romance,
I think pressure on a throat
and red mist that only lives inside my private lore.
They toast to bright futures while I hum along off key.
Inside I see their endings,
and it feels like home to me.
Late night stereo up too loud,
plastic on the floor in my imagination,
rain on the window like a metronome of dread.
I dance with ghosts that wear their business suits,
humming along to pop songs
while I picture every swing inside my head.
In the bathroom mirror my reflection flickers,
one side saint in Armani, one side devil in blood red.
Fuck you
Fuck off
Fucking hell I gotta go I gotta go,
“I have to return some videotapes”
Maybe I am nothing but teeth, hair, and hunger
with a credit card and a plan.
Maybe every heartbeat is a countdown
written in marker on the back of my hand.
If the mask hits the floor and the real one stays,
no one walks out of this clean.
All that shine, all that charm,
all that murder washing through a human machine.
Perfect suit, perfect tie, perfect lunatic within.
Shaking hands, taking notes,
waiting for the night I finally let him win.
“This confession has meant nothing”