A Piece of Southern Goth II

My life bleeds--It reads like a bad play, I, the haphazard playwright. 

Maybe I thought you could understand me. Maybe on a balmy afternoon, chilled to death with air conditioned goosebumps, maybe I thought our sadness could coexist in the same capacity. 

Baby, things are better off dead. 

Trucks that roam the ash colored earth, ravaged and rusty, their menacing bodies squeal like a cry for help or when the moon is dark and the stars hide, a roar. The worst is when the afternoon sun bakes from afar and you see them on a desolate country road. What are they doing so far out here all alone? What are you doing so far out here all alone? You pass, eyes determinedly on the road ahead, and you can't help but feel watched. You turn your head swiftly and see the red of brake lights.

There's a place I know, an oriental buffet of yesteryear, with pieces of the marigold facade rippling off into the wind, tattered scrolls and tassels hanging in the windows, remnants of calligraphy letters still clinging honorably like ciphers, robust red lanterns and lackluster green dragons painted on the door. And yet, on the sign in front next to the overgrown weeds remains, 'God Bless America.'

All buildings that have shut down seem sinister. Overgrown and silently decaying, controlled by weeds, with vicious ferns that block out all hope of light even with half the roof falling into the dirt that uproots the old tile floor. 

The fair's in town-- bringing back childhood memories of heated scoldings by parents for sneaking in under the fences. The carnies will take you. Children gone, disappeared, packed up and away with the rides. They do this everywhere, build and destroy. Nobody willingly joins the fair, the fair just breathes and lives on. One minute, dry and crusty earth, the next a kitsch haunted house or a tilt-a-whirl in the neon clad wonderment of a space ship. Maybe it can take me home. Maybe the hapless infants aren't stolen so much as found. Finding themselves among the gritty neon and overstuffed prizes. When those lights go on I feel reborn, happy screams and artificial laughter, gums stuck together by cotton candy and tongues blood red from cherry sugar ice. Walking, standing, watching, being watched from under the swings, so close to the merri-go-round horse that you can feel it pulse as it goes by, shimmering and alive. The music is a lure.The music is a snare. Oh god, leave, find the gate and leave. 

All I have are these ghosts in my head. All the emptiness abound-- an empty baseball diamond because it's too hot to play. Swings that are taken by the wind alone. Was that a trick of the wandering sun? a small, pesky animal? Or are the shadows making their move now? Is that me in the distance? The heat ripples my perception of the scene and all I see is darkness personified walking towards me. How could I know it's me? What would make me think that other than the truth? Has it come to kill or be saved (the cursor blinks here for five, six, seven seconds) 

I continue. 

You were never meant to be here this long, Starchild, I pray you're happy now. I just can't ask you anymore. What's dead should stay dead.