|
Syrope
|
i discovered cruelty and it solved so many of my problems
and now i itch to do it again. to cut away, to carve out the parts i don't like, to leave myself an abstract piece of art, sharp corners and misplaced hollows in the sculpture of my soul
then when i see myself in the museum of failures i can be repulsed and think "how did anyone ever find that thing beautiful?"
i don't want to hear how sweetly this longing, this pain, pregnant with hope, brings you happiness. you swirl before me, getting ready for the dance, lamenting over the difficult choice of which dress you'll wear, and all i can do is cower, wondering how i'm going to face tomorrow, how i'm going to survive baring myself to the elements. again.
so don't ask me for advice on this. don't pretend that it's hurting you. the words i'm holding back are so bitter that they might kill us both, and i'd unleash them only if i could be sure of who would die first. but i can't. so i'll keep trying to swallow while you ask me what's wrong.
i don't want your pity, or your condolences, or your indignance. i do have a right to feel this way. to me, the only emotion you're allowed to feel is shame at seeing me this way, at my blatant cries, embarassing you in public like a fitful child, at knowing that you did this, at knowing that you'd do it over again if you had the chance.
i hope the gleam of tears on my eyelashes makes you avert your eyes, i hope that the smell of the poisons seeping from my pores makes you nauseous, and i hope that i represent the imperfection in everything you think is so wonderful.
if only i could thrive on the anger the way i thrive on the pain
|
040324
|
