In so many words...

From Paris to New York 

If I all I see is you, and all I feel is truth and all I used to breathe was your subtle illusion of love.
If all the pain that slowly thickens and builds around the vital organs in my chest, if all of that is sane and all that is concrete. If all that is reality and love and hurt and if all that is bleeding and broken and torn apart. If all of this is today and yesterday.
If all of this will be tomorrow? 
Then will you love me in the days to come?
But they told me I'd feed off of it. They warned me. They said I would breathe it, I would quench my thirst through it. They told me that even when my eyes were open my heart would stay closed.
And they knew better than I did.
I am starving.
I am dry.
I am gasping for air that I know no longer exists.
The air is gone.
They said I would feed off of it... but I guess I never got the chance to. So let me die of hunger, let me die of pain.
Let me die from the love I thought would keep me sane.

They said she saved the broken. She pieced together the broken hearts and souls and glued them so tightly that even when she let go they would hold, and despite the cracks the souls were whole again, the people were human again, the hearts were unbroken. And she walks away and spends the night binging and puking, with tears in her eyes and cuts to her thighs. And she awakes with a smile across her face in a vain attempt to camouflage her shattered soul. They said she saved the broken, but who will save the saviour?

I saw him today... He was with his friends..some I knew. Some I didn't. He didn't notice me at first, I was making my way down the escalator. I had a clear birds eye view of the entire food court, he was making his way to the narrow alleyway that led to the bathroom between the wall and the escalator (you know.. The one I was on). And somehow he looked up and found me... Our eyes locked. He waved and smiled. I was surprised, I thought he hated me by now. It was a nice wave, cute even, dare I say. The gesture held so many meanings. It said 'hey, i know it's been a while, but I still remember you'. That wave made my day... It's pretty amazing how someone could have that much of an affect on you... But what can I say, I remembered him too..

"Just do me a favour" she said"...Don't ever fall in love". I asked her why she would ever say such a thing. Love, well to my one track mind, is beautiful. It's the one thing that keeps everything in life moving."everything moving?" She said. "How so? How it eats you away in your sleep, how you end up with daydreaming eyes hoping for things that you know will never happen. How it gives someone, to whom you are completely insignificant, the power to reign over you, the power to break you in two. It is a drug. it tears you apart day by day and i ask Why can't he simply be addicted to me like I am to him...it's simple." I took two steps forward before responding "maybe it isn't love that tears you apart.... But the lack of receiving that same love back. " she turned around and started to slowly walk away and even though she whispered I could still hear her mumble "we accept the love we think we deserve". And she was gone...

Maybe if I close my eyes for long enough I can imagine the unimaginable. Imagine the value in myself that no one ever saw… if it ever existed to begin with. If I close my eyes and simply breathe in the rush of warm air that gracefully laces the creases of my skin and into my face… maybe then I will feel some sensory, maybe my numbed veins will begin to defrost and slowly melt into what they were meant to be. Could my brain possibly control every inch of my being? Maybe if I close my eyes I can imagine the unimaginable… But if I close my eyes, who will guarantee that they will ever open again...

You don't get it. The silence hurts, the clear crisp silence where footsteps are felt, And the pin drops are heard. The silence hurts. Because its where my mind wanders deep in search of the little drawer kept locked up, the drawer of nightmares, the drawer of hate. The silence hurts, the sound of silence is deafening, so turn the chit chat, turn the birds, turn the laughter on. Turn the sound of music up. Drown out the nightmare, drown out the pain, drown out the hate. Please mute the sound of silence.

It's all I see. The bad, the bold, the beautiful. Where is the ugly? I walk in vain search for the face that makes me shy away in disgust, a smile that makes my eyes burn a searing pain and cry salty water. I walk or run whichever it was. The disgust, the paranoia, the ugly are no where to be found, I cannot see it. The others walk as in peace of mind, as if they have already come to close realization of where they might be found! I cannot find it! I panic. Will no one show me? And I ask and I beg and I plead to be heard, for my questions to be answered! But they only glance down and walk away shyly. I fall to my knees and let the gavel sink into my skin. If I cannot find the ugly, then the ugly is me. The disgust, the paranoia is me? The pathetic? Yes, the pathetic is me.... The pathetic had always been me.

I don't remember. I don't remember the pain, I don't remember the knife, I don't remember the depth, I don't remember the scarlet liquid viscosity that dripped from the thin line of mutation. I don't remember. But it is there, to remind me, the thin line that marks my arm, it is there to MAKE remember how I only follow and never lead, how I am a joke in this world of freaks. How I never, not once not ever felt as disgusting as I had at that moment. But it was not only one moment, it was millions of moments, and millions more to come. Do I add to my little gallery of art? Do I tie another bow to remind me of the forgotten, or do I sit and shed and draw with pen on the sides of my thighs. Do I close my eyes and imagine I am not a sheep. Do I close my eyes and imagine that blade slowly running through the side of my leg....

I guess it's easy to say my eyes are never dry. Salty liquid explodes from the tiny sockets of my eyes invading the creases of my skin. It's the comfortable sadness of my tiny imaginary world. If only it were truly a figment of my imagination, but no. Reality, it hits like the very first snowfall. Calm and steady at first, beautiful even, so I dare say. Suddenly the wind blows harder, the flakes move faster, my vision is gone. Some stray easily away from the storm, while others get caught wandering in infinite circles of pure misery until one I'd able to pull them out. But the others have saved themselves, and it is only those courageous who will go back and guide the hopeless back to hope.

Everything hurts they said. And the scars itch. They itch insanely. Intensely. We can close our eyes and try and imagine that they don't hurt or that we hate the pain. But we feel the pain, we feel the hurt, we feel the scars. And we try to deny its wonderful feeling. The beautiful way the ooze of bright scarlet seems to explode out if the thin line. That line that once took you so much courage to make, and now it comes easily. But you don't feel courageous, you don't feel wonderful. Your pathetic worries build up higher and higher creating stacks of fear in your heart.
......
Your eyes try their best to avoid the scars u made. They swerve away when your naked arms come to sight, not that u would ever dare make the mistake of leaving them bare. And you deny the fact that Swerving eyes don't make wounds disappear...

And so you played me, or so I let you. And in your mind you probably see me as an ally of Satan and his minions. When in reality it is you, was you, and always will be you who inflicts me with this disease without a cure. Without a hope, without a moment of trust. And so I died at the hands of your devilish acts. I died at the hands of your disease. I died... because you killed me.