Suna no Kioku
My thoughts boil into notes on a sheet. I cannot speak, only sing. Nuance to each word but never face value - my hand never shown, my smile never meant.
I pick up the pieces of what is real, they slide through my fingers effortlessly. I know what I want to be, what I want to do. I am forbidden, run away, run away. Myself, that I do not know.
I pierce my self, knowing of self, crumpling and flaking like old paint. A rusted shell remains, joints harshly screeching. I reach out, trembling. I feel the cold metal of my arms, despite lacking nerves.
I remember myself. A gentle sheen coating my limbs, joints rolling with ease. It’s not the end, never, as long as I can see and breathe, and move the joints at all. The paint can flake, the rust can scratch, but I will continue forward. I will cast the brick-orange coating from my limbs, revealing a gentle sheen once more, maybe even with the brush of steel or gun-metal.
Not tomorrow, but today.