Of lamp posts and old friends.

For most, electricity counjures up sparks. Light flying at jagged angles into oblivion, edges kissing the sky with a hot, wet tongue of death.

For me, it speaks dust. Delicate flakes of fragile neon, incandescent crystals glowing with either pride or a motive. It fills your lungs, coughing and choking and sputtering with power as it shuts off the delicate chassis of heart tissue intertwined in your chest. You could drown just after you see the light cloud your vision.

(What a shocking way to go!)

The voltage in this room smells old and familiar. You ignore it, obviously on a mission. I bet you barely taste the bile as it washes over the back of your throat, scorching every inch of your mouth.

(Colour me: Acrid and vile.)

Not surprisingly, it was dark where we first met. Dark, dingy, dirty, destitute, desolate. Appropos, really, when you think about it - it was just like you. And now, as you face me in this shithole of a dance club, music scraping in your ears and light fluttering from the sky like a new year's snow, you channel every ounce of what you tried to kill within yourself.

But none of that really matters now. I think I know who I am in this spotlight (or lack thereof.)

Maybe, someday soon, I'll be able to fit it into words.

But only if I can go to sleep knowing that it's carved into your cadavered arms - deep and crimson for the world to study. To touch. To regret.

(Oh, my! What a pretty corpse you have!)

Because I think it's the only way they'll take me seriously, anyways.