My Little Masquerade: Friendship is [Blood] Magic

Of A Small-Minded Muse

why, why, WhY?
They don’t get it, why don’t they get it? It’s so obvious. Blind bats chasing the elephant.
The degenerates have their raft, and the dye jobs have their barbed chairs.
The rabid think they can run away and make friends, and the rabble think if others think like them then they’re okay
The sludge think they’re smarter and cleverer, and the usurpers shouted like a child at the mall in august
The necks want to eliminate the parameters that create the problem
The liars have got it exactly backwards
the sheep have their religion, and the shushers have a code
The fiends think they can escape upwards, and the keepers think they can pull the hole they’ve dug in behind them.

If we’re the only ones who’ve dusted our brains off since we dearly departed, then why’re we the only ones tormented by the cobweb?
It’s a blood thing, right? It’s always a blood thing. They have blood. Why’s this all on us?

I see black wings every night now.

There, that’s it. It’s not the what of blood and the color and the dripping and the heat…
It’s w—

That’s the answer.
But why?

Someone forgot to show their work.

I’m scared.



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