Poison

Contagiously forgetful, religiously forgotten.

Consistently concise, coherently conceited.

The guy whose mark fades. The fingerprints are allusive, they can escape detection for a while, but eventually, the touch is stepped on. Then the poison grows…

The bitter, arrogant unsubstantiated self-worth crystalises the paradoxical nature of their woes.

Prolonged proximity immunises the unlucky few, but as the years go on, minds become fatigued to their existence as new strains fervour.

A smile, a genuine smile, a smile that means something. The instinct of it all, when they haven’t yet reconsidered if happiness is permitted. In those brief moments, their poison is hidden, humanity glistens before being washed away by their overbearing brain. Probably some spot it, the bubbling panic behind their eyes. The strain of pushing against the tide, ‘racing to a red light’.

They love it when they forget people’s names. It rarely happens, but when it does, it comes with relief, confirmation of progression. Supportive of fading impressions yet, defiant against their own seamless smudge.

It would be easier if their poison was lethal. A fitting conclusion to a loveless chemical. It is the hint of a cure that spurs them on, provides faith to those around them. Perhaps, a vaccine will be less evasive. One pill every year or so, and their poison will barely dent newly armoured partnerships.

Communication becomes immune to toxins. Immune to them.

A celebratory Yukan.

Cheers.