Dear Charles

Death is not something I hold in high regard

When it comes to the things I fear most.

Really,

It’s being alone that scares me

It’s like a feeling of dread that just keeps crawling

‘Round in my stomach

Like some sort of parasitic creature keeping me for a

Host.

But Charles, oh, Charles

You are a wonder to me.

First the cheese graters touch that wonderfully psychotic

Cheek of yours. And then that swastika;

Artful, though rudimental, it captured and captivated the

World. We are in the palm of your hand,

Dear Charles. Dear friend.

We’re the crazy ones, you and I.

According to them we are.

I don’t know you

And

You don’t know me

But I love you all the same.

You understand the insatiable urge to shock, confuse, and generally

Discombobulate the general public.

To be noticed,

Ah, now there’s the prize.

To be loved, however,

Would be going to far.

Charles, I envy you

I wish I could do the Manson thing with the cheese graters on my skin

Slough it all off and flush it down the drain, water turning red with every drop of blood that finds its way there

Too close for comfort some might say

But I call it cozy and warm and calming, the sight of the blood and the skin.

I’ll have to keep these things secret, though, the “cheese grater” things.

You don’t want them to start talking

Once they start they’ll never stop with the

“She’s crazy”

“She’s emo”

“I think she’s psychotic”

“I think she needs help”

I’m fine. I swear. Just leave it be. Just because I’m not a mass-produced cookie-cutter version of what a woman’s supposed to be

Everyone gets all worried for my mental health, but more so for their own safety.

Maybe if I go kill someone they’ll see what crazy is.

Manson was crazy. He needed to be locked up. Not me. I just take my inspiration from the crazy ones

Like the cheese grater

It just seemed like a good idea at the time

I know I’m not a slab of cheese and I know when

NOT

To kill someone

That’s the difference between Manson and me.

He’s the crazy one

I’m just a woman.