Saturday, April 16, 2011

Never read this.

I feel like writing whimsically.

You probably don't remember half the things I do, or you do and I don't want you too--and that's what you do. You make me speak in rhymes, you give me butterflies, you remind of winter days: trapped beneath the ice, fighting, kicking, screaming, dying to get out and neither of us can, and that's why I know you so well. They've said time and time again that we're too different, too much the same, but I know you--do you know me? I don't want you to. I don't want you to see the things I see, which grow inside of me like a black plague, shutting out the light, devouring my insides: I don't want you to have that. But then I do, because that would make me like you, and that is all I want to be.

And furthermore when you drive that wedge between us, blind to the destruction, smiling as you do; you smile like ice, you do. You want to be like ice: I know you too well. You don't want me to know you and I don't think I want to either, but I do: you want to be like ice, and you'll stick a knife in every side of me to do it. You don't see the things I see; you see them differently. Where I see fire you see ice; it's always been this way. That's what you're like. Your warmth is a facade; I know you're all cold on the inside. You hurt and you struggle but you won't let others see: you're closed. But me, I'm too open: I'm not like you at all. I want you to find comfort in me, but you just won't: you won't trust me, you're too cold.

And you, who I love, I know I love, I want to love: you suck the life out of me. You do it with your sorry words, which I can't help. I want so much to help you but I can't, and you can't help you either, and then we all just fall to pieces like a thousand old brick walls, fighting against the violent waves of mercy which threaten to destroy us, consume us. I want us to be in this together and you want someone to understand, but I don't think you understand yourself. Like the modern world, electromagnetism, you'll use me to my full extent while we're torn apart and thrown together in all manner of violent motions. We want mercy. We both want to understand, we both want to be spared from the onslaught of our own sorry selves, but the wave keeps crashing and sometimes I think you don't know me at all, that I'm holding on to sour seaweed in the form of your polished hands in the thrashing ocean, and that you're too far away for me to find.

We understand each other. You're too much and I'm too little: we sit in silence, because I can't think of what to say and I don't think you can either. You're too little; I'm too much; we're at the same level, all the time; we even out. We both stare at the darkness of the dead night sky and reach forward, grasping in the air for something like each other but something better than this emptiness; I think we're hypnotized by life. I think too many things, and you think the same things but you see them in the dead dark sky and I am blind to the stars, because I don't recognize them. All you see is darkness so you paint stars in the sky, bloated ugly things, blue and gray and brown and yellow, and all shades of green. You're a strange person but I am too, and in the end I trust you.

And you all, standing in the sidelines, holding out knives for me to fall into when I'm thrown out of the rink: I hate you and I want you desperately. I miss your poison; I miss your cold embrace. You gave me what I was and then walked away, and I was too blind to see that you gave me scraps, you gave me remnants and cold pieces which you were too good to keep. I wish I never loved you because you ripped away all that you gave me, but you couldn't take all of it: you couldn't take the scars, and you couldn't take the shadows. I wanted to be you and I thought you gave me me, because I wanted to give you you too; but you were already there and I was floating through an eerily calm sea, waiting for someone to tell me who I was. I wanted to be you. I wish I never loved you.

And you, the worst of all: the worst of the worst. Your pain is a mockery and you, you are vitriolic: your are vile, contemptuous, and I hate you with all that's left of my heart, after the misery you caused. Never has there been something so worthless, so futile, grasping at darkness when the light turned you away. You want the light so desperately you would take it from anything, anyone, though you know in your empty heart that you do not and never will deserve it. You're so lost inside your own twisted mind that I gave up the search, and let you rot while I try with all my might to break free from your violent, vicious, desperate grasp.