You take my clothes off. They won't be of any use to where I am heading to. I shave my hair, exposing my skull to full view. No more need for aesthetics, no more care is needed. I can see a crossroads of veins born on my temples and following their roads all over the surface of the head. We are the roads we follow, and ultimately we come back and forth until we get bored of them. Difficult to admit, but there is always a dead end old road in everyone of us.
I later proceed to erase the rest of protection for my skin. The face loses expression as the brows fall on my chest, the marks of youth appear over my naked self as the intimate becomes unveiled. Hard to remember how one looks when we are children and we can barely see what we are diving in.
Then the knife, sharp and shining like in old times. The surface is cold as the veins it cuts, but the flowing soul runs warmer than I ever thought.
I paint with me all the mirrors in the room. In no delicate manner I fill them up with my ink until they vomit me, writing no love stanzas but a single voluminous spit of doom over my identity they can no longer represent. I cover them all, black from the rotten wounds of decay and vice, showing some crimson blush that soon fades with the venom of my older truths finally shown
Then I call you to where I am, and you lick me up. There is no need for rush, but you must take it all. As you swallow me, I can see in your eyes that you finally understand me. No need for words, you take me in and accept my will. Then you leave, and I stay a little more. I touch you for the last time, leaving your deep perfume on my finger tips. The same fingers I turn my last pages with.
Finally I lock all the doors that I opened all my life, sealing them with my last hopes that all I ever did was crossing them without leaving anything there. I wished I had created new doors, opened new gates and destroy all the ones that proved doomed. Nothing I ever did was worth being mentioned except these last lines.
The final door is opened by others, or by self impulse. There is a long corridor without walls. As I try to put my step on it I realise there is no floor, no ceiling, no door in itself. Then a splash of light hitting my cells, bathing me in a dream that should never end.
When I open my eyes, I watch the hand of fate turn into a fist and digging its way into my chest, splitting my past life in two and taking its heart out.
Then...only long time after that...this same heart is buried on another chest, nailied all over it through different veins, under another skin. Another body will be there again, more blood will make it move and feel once more. I will get up and walk again only to find new doors to open, old roads to take. At the end you will be there and this time I will drink you. You will empty yourself in me and you will leave. I will cry over my mirrors and the black paint will wear off. My hair will grow back and my own self will reach the angles of my face to make it live.
The clothes will be there to cover me again, waiting for you to take them off once more