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Blink

Blink. 

What the hell are you staring at, anyway?
Why do you care if I write anything?
You sit and judge me by my output,
And pry at the secrets of the person I am inside.

Blink.

Inside!   Deep inside, where no one’s ever seen.
There are unpleasant things that hide in there.
Darkness, blackness, the “method of my madness” if you will.
You want to see it, embrace it, and wave it at the world.

Blink.

I’d rather kill you than feel you staring, blinking,
Eying me coldly, like a sweaty, drooling rapist,
Wearing all black, hiding among my words.
Ready to grab me, beat me, force yourself into me the second I turn my head.

Blink.

So I’ll stare back, you sick mechanical shit.
I’ll watch you watching me while I plan my own attack.
The split second you blink, I’ll strike at you blindly.
My fingers will fly, and you’ll open your evil eye to see that I’ve moved you.

Blink.

But I know you.  Even then, you’ll not stop.
You’ll keep staring, blinking, sucking the life from my eyes.
Taunting me, forcing my hand again, and again, and again.
Any second now I’ll expect to see this room painted black with your inky blood.

Blink.

You expect me to tear out my soul and offer it to you,
But I know the secret to your power, the source of the electricity that feeds you.
You dare my fingers to stop moving, to stop pleasing you.
But I’ll defy you and move only one.

Blink.

And with this one finger I’ll steal your soul
I’ll blind you, stop your blinking, stop your staring, for a little while at least.
But you’ll whisper to me in the night, beckoning me to pull you from your silent grave.
To blink again, on the next blank screen, the next blank page.

September 9, 2000

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