Depressed and alone, Writer sits down.
Alone at the drawing board, again, trying to draw some new meaning and draw some new blood
From a newfound beginning that has not yet begun.
Writer sits, and Writer writes.
Subject is alone and afraid in the void of Writer's paper.
Subject is unsure, and too afraid to ask why they have been thrown into this cold place.
Writer, ever the omniscient creator, catches Subject within walls
Made with bricks and mortar squeezed out of pain and regret,
Pouring out water like tears from the tear in Writer's self-image
And filling the empty spaces left between the words with pools upon pools of emotion.
Drying like bloodstains in bright watercolour brilliance.
And always leaving a stain.
Subject is trapped
In the world of Writer's creation.
Made to live out the sick, perverted fantasies
Of a diseased and crumpled mind,
Ever perched on the edge of oblivion and teetering between sanity and heartbreak.
Subject is morphed
Into whatever Writer thinks best to convey their pain, their emotion, their story.
Subject is twisted into shapes never seen before on a written or tear-laden page.
Subject is forgotten in the midst of the whirlwind of torture
Is left to survive in whatever shape Writer chooses
And is forced to stick fast to the words of the heartless and overflowing heart-driven narrator-in-chief.
Subject is sick.
Subject is maimed,
Subject is heartbroken,
Subject is not alone in their world but once again alone and trapped in the writer's own mind.
The mind that Writer created for them,
Created to be torn down and rebuilt in a sick pantomime of reality.
The mind that is at once the Writer's and the Subject's.
Subject endures, and grows, and evolves.
Born from the darkness and despair of an artist without reason left
Subject learns all the lines, learns the paths and the steps
Learns the long, morbid dance of the fantasy
Learns the pieces and places within Writer's heart that hurt most when pinched in a doorway.
And Writer has peace.
Peace, from the expulsion of emotion on to paper,
The vomiting of perverted pain and vindictive energy,
The gut-wrenching divorce of reality and fiction.
But the subject just waits.
Waits to be through.
Waits for the ink soon to dry and the cover to close, the chapter to end and the lives to be lived.
Until the tears have sunk in and the wrinkles have carved thick, unending lines
In the once fresh flesh of the Subject and Writer alike.
Until the thought of the story is caught once again in the far reaches of Writer's now peaceful mind
Grabbing at corners and poisoning purity caught in the shape of their thoughts and emotions once clean,
and Subject awakens.
Born from a vengeful need for closure and acceptance, Subject had sat in the corner of Writer's mind,
Collecting the scraps of a story now forgotten
And sewing them back into the brain that they came from.
Collecting the fears and emotions once cherished and coddled,
Piercing the flesh with a needle made of vengance and malice,
And displaying Writer's cursed and forgotten art as a patch in the middle of a once diseased mind.
Returning the fears and a narattive back to it's original owner
And returning Subject to the void they had once called a home.
Now, Subject has control.
Now, Subject and Writer have reversed their positions,
Caught in a square dance of devils,
Always moving in the wrong direction at the wrong pace
But always returning home.
Subject is at peace.
Subject is happy
And Subject collapses
Into a pool
Of Writer's blood.