Tacked up from here.

Tacked up.


All the way up, on the very top of the world. Hanging above the ant-like people, my dried-up skin falling off in small pieces, fluttering down like butter-fly wings.
I watch my breath cloud in front of my mouth, wondering what I'm wearing, wondering if it's as grey as this colourful city is. This city is full of mirrors, you see, but it cannot seem to grasp the image of itself properly.
Either that, or my vision's skewed.
But the eerie little ant-like people start looking up, brushing pieces of dried bloody-scabs off their shoulders.
"Sorry," I call down, but it comes out in more of a whimper than a word.
I realize that the pins and tacks holding me up aren't very strong. I realize I'm going to plummet to my death soon, and one lucky ant-like person is going to be right underneath me as I fall.
"Run," I call out. "Save yourselves!"
No one hears me. Maybe I'm just crying, cold tears sliding their way down my rosy cheeks. Maybe my calls and warnings are just more whimpers and sniffles.
Huffing, and puffing, I'll blow myself down. I'll fall,
fall,
f a l l....
all the way down. And I'll land in an icy puddle, my blood swimming around me in small tendrils and designs. I'll smile, I know. I'll smile up at the world, glad they ran as soon as I fell. I'll smile, and I will tell them, "This world is so beautiful. I have seen the beauty. It's so nice, so cold and fresh, it's perfect. But you don't need all these buildings and mirrors around. You don't know, right? That's not safe. This world is beautiful, but it needs to stop criticizing it's every move. It's needs to stop thinking so much, and feel. Or rather, do. Move somewhere.
"I see the beauty, in these cold winter-mornings. In the fresh snow, the fresh ice. So soft, so clean. So smooth. I see the beauty in snow-forts and wet-snow down your back, pulling all the small hairs along your skin up, up, UP.
"I see the sparkling ground after it's rained, the bumpy concrete chalk-people holding hands. I see the World, our life, go by.
I've been so high up, all my life. Hanging. Hanging, and slowly having the life choked out of me.
But all the while, you see, I've been watching.
This world is beautiful.
Look at it.
It's beautiful."

I hope that will explain why I smile as I die.
I love the beauty.
I love it so much, it makes me cry sometimes. Those nice, icy tears, down my skin. They cool my temper, freeze my blood back into the cuts.
I love beauty,
so much,
I cry.

But no one else sees it. 
Fuck's sake, it's perfect.

Why can't anyone else see it?