untitled vii

        Dear voiceless,

                     
                      I am a fool, and even as I write this, before the hateful words have been said, before the pain is revealed in all its colorless cruelty, I realize just how irrevocably broken you have made me. And I admit, I am not only the victim but the masochistic mirror that held you regardless of your jagged bones, your insatiable mouth.

    It was wrong to have kissed you in such darkness. I couldn't help it; my lips wrapped around your fragile husk and I swallowed, struggling with all your thorns and imperfections, wanting to die as you tore everything, but I loved you even then, remember? I loved you because you made me want to die; that was the most I had felt since he last crawled beneath my heart, and burned slowly.

      You didn't. You locked me in a room filled with propane, and lit a match. I inhaled the flames with a laughing madness that only love can bring when it is hopeless; I sung to the godless, and praised him because he was as silent as you. I hoped to come back to you with eyes that weren't so lifeless, or at least in a color that you loved, and kill you just the same, but I look at my hands that are not really hands, these words that are not as fatal as your stillness, and wonder if all this misery is worth giving.




            (unfinished.)