Keep the Faith
Dichotomy.
That’s all you do. Bleed me dry. Cry me empty. Love my hollow. That’s all it is – a game. A dichotomy of to-and-fro, pushing and pulling, coming and going… but mostly going. I hate you. I never thought I’d let such disgusting words to fall from my mouth. I never thought I’d be dared enough to say it. Such blasphemy. But against everything I’ve ever promised or whispered or written; I hate you. Every single tiny fiber in my being is aching, pushing me to do it, pulling me along.
Maybe a bullet shattering your skill would fix it. Maybe a dagger plummeting into your lungs so you drown on your own glossy blood will fix it. Maybe I couldn’t be bothered to clean up the mess.
I cant sleep. You’re under my skin. You held my hand when I wore this jumper. You touched my thigh when I wore these pants. You kissed my forehead when I wore these slippers. You fucked me in these sheets. You’re everywhere. But you’re nowhere, not when I need you at least, not when its important, not when it doesn’t suit you.
You just you. Always you. Only for you. And yet, still, here’s the punch line, this dichotomy. Do I stay and let it be? Or do I go and let it fall to pieces?
I don’t want much. I just want you to throw up your hands in the air in simple submission, and give up. Turn around, walk away. And I want to stab you fair between the shoulder blades, so the pressure chokes you. I’ll bring you to your knees with one push in and one pull out.
That’s now how we are supposed to end. We’re supposed to have our forever. I just don’t see how that’s possible with things the way they are. Your death is so absolute. So conclusive. I want to destroy something beautiful.
You.
But you won’t let me. That would be too easy. I want to fix it. I just want to fix it.
Maybe a bullet shattering your skill would fix it. Maybe a dagger plummeting into your lungs so you drown on your own glossy blood will fix it. Maybe I couldn’t be bothered to clean up the mess.
I cant sleep. You’re under my skin. You held my hand when I wore this jumper. You touched my thigh when I wore these pants. You kissed my forehead when I wore these slippers. You fucked me in these sheets. You’re everywhere. But you’re nowhere, not when I need you at least, not when its important, not when it doesn’t suit you.
You just you. Always you. Only for you. And yet, still, here’s the punch line, this dichotomy. Do I stay and let it be? Or do I go and let it fall to pieces?
I don’t want much. I just want you to throw up your hands in the air in simple submission, and give up. Turn around, walk away. And I want to stab you fair between the shoulder blades, so the pressure chokes you. I’ll bring you to your knees with one push in and one pull out.
That’s now how we are supposed to end. We’re supposed to have our forever. I just don’t see how that’s possible with things the way they are. Your death is so absolute. So conclusive. I want to destroy something beautiful.
You.
But you won’t let me. That would be too easy. I want to fix it. I just want to fix it.