The boy can't go home if he ain't got a home to go back to. The boy can't talk to his friends when he knows they won't recognize him, when the very thought of having to face them and hide the blood on his hands causes him anxiety. And what then, what when they see the blood's just dripping from where they pulled the fucking nails out. And won't he be labelled a traitor if he lets slip that he has no real interest in their interests anymore, shows no concern for their concerns, save the fulfilling feeling of bitter ache and torment that their very appearance conjures in his sick little armadillo heart, that delicious irony that slips like lemon juice and bourbon down his tired throat, pickles his diseased liver, and fuels the raging pale fire behind his eyes, the fire he hopes to focus into laser-like accuracy and potency someday. And he'll just mow 'em down, pierce them straight through with a crystalline death that smells like cedar berries and feels like deja vu. Maybe that's what gets him off; the inconvenience of life, poor timing, and the resentment that follows him around like a kicked dog. He and the dog are the same, and they are all too proud for a shaggy animal with nothing to show for their trials but a couple cracked ribs and a long list of transgressions and indiscretions.
And I left and nothing's changed but these sky-blue lenses. They're focusing, cutting right through the mirror and writing my history across my tongue. Be still, my heart. Leaving is for cowards and feet. You and me and our brain are strong, we are brave, and we are warriors. We shall cover our loneliness with chain mail and knight it. I dub thee Solitude, a righteous avenger. Hold thy head tall, thy back straight. We can only march forward, on and away.