photograph

I hold you in my fingers,
tight like the strangling of a throat.
You are a stranger to me.
And you are my victim.

You stand there,
content,
happy,
frozen in time,
which makes murder
so much easier.

I found you in the space
in between pages,
in between words,
in the midst of some story
you didn't belong to.
Frozen in time,
as a bookmark.

Is murder in two dimensions
murder at all?
Because next to your aging face,
that powdered colour,
that proud smile,
I hold a flame
like a gun to your head.

The scariest thing about God
is indifference.

The room warps
and bends into the third dimension,
where it doesn't belong.
It begins to bubble
and turn black.
The edges of your world
singe and flake away
into ash.
Soon the fire hooks into your flesh,
and that smile is torn off,
melting into a scar.
Your eyes pop
into liquid plastic
and the heat bores into your body
like nails.

The scariest thing about you and me
is indifference.

Welcome to the third dimension.
Welcome to a world where existence and identity
combust into ash...
into ash...
into...
ash...
...