A heart of gold makes for a heavy chest.
Whether engraved in solid stone,
Or scratched into an assortment of abandoned bones,
I have seen your power at work.
You soften souls with meticulously measured applications of supernatural oils,
And once you’ve finished your preparation ritual, you carefully slice into the soggy tissue, hollow out a bloody cache, and begin embedding all manner of conductive material.
You stuff the soul, like an oversized pillowcase, until it is bulging with intimate elemental concoctions, that move.
They sway and stab, like a dramatic song, directly connecting to the most coveted sections of the subconscious.
They move, like a wave of goosebumps, pressing their rounded crowns against the fibrous ceiling of their new home, within the ghost in question.
These “conductive materials” are not metals, or chemicals. They’re passions, and provocations.
And at first, they must be aroused by external activity.
But before long, they need no activation. They are autonomous, inciting cyclical rages and detachments, at will.
But there is no will involved, is there? Is there? No will, except your own, right?
You, who inspires and creates. You have torn me open. Open, but not apart. You have set into me every conceivable combination of atoms. I am your experiment, and as you imagine, I’m also your prize.
And I believe it is for this reason, you have yet to seal my surgical wound.
You need me to bleed.
A zipper would be nice.