Courpse Eyes

If mental illness were a person if it could grow legs and start wearing other people’s skin he wouldn’t just have it. He’d be it. He’d be standing right in front of you, and you’d feel the draft coming off his soul. The face shifting.

I’ve seen him in three different rooms, with three different crowds, and he had three different accents. In the morning, he’s got the hard jaw of some guy he saw in a cologne ad. By lunch, he carries the slumped, tragic poetry of a musician you liked in high school. By midnight, he’s screaming in the voice of whoever just left him.

He’s a Xerox of a Xerox of a human being. He doesn’t have a face. He has a rotation.