Blood runs on these hands.
Blood dries on these imperfect hands.
Blood stains this shadow of a man forced to pretend.
Contrite laughs by a grave revelation
have bound a soul to disguise himself out of desperation.
I am the character on stage armed with theatrics,
allowing white coats to cloak a thinning veneer.
A glass construct shudders at its base.
Piece it together with your arms as a fortress.
Struggling in a cityscape unphased by its lurking trauma,
piece me together as my machinery decomposes.
My constant companion, unaware as you are,
carrying the weight of a collapsing structure,
instilling confidence forgotten in the next travel backwards,
yet never absent from my mind,
cursed to remember every scene of every outcome.
Caressing now amidst a concluding drama,
is it fair now to say we’ve won?
Observing the repercussions of undoing foolish consequences,
desire flatlines in favor of a once undesirable status quo,
where a microwave meant nothing more than the sum of its parts.
The cords have been untangled.
A smile regains its shape.
But a snag—
a gear caught in transition—
a jarring realization—
innocence flickers out of focus,
a glitch in convoluted reality.
An explosion seemingly years past resonates in the now.
The now is nowhere near safe.
A line is caught on an error of existence;
a flaw of life when its destination had been decided—
a glitch in convoluted reality.
Of all futures,
one is a victory only Pyrrhus would accept.
One is certain defeat;
the utter destruction of me in every outcome.
The now is nowhere near safe.
Makise Kurisu must die.

( ❤ Mitch)