I was a teenage super villain, but her love brought me back to the straight and narrow, and besides, nobody wants to be tried as an adult.
She taught me to be tied like and adult; knotted up in bed for days, watching the sky slide past the window, light patterns rolling across the carpeting with nothing better to do.
She used a hammer and chisel to open up my heart, and she left me leaking on the floor when she was done. “I don’t have any bandages for a bandito like you,” she cooed cruelly. “You should learn how to live without pain anyway.”
There’s a pattern being played out as the raindrops rest themselves upon the windows. A beat of nature and the city, like a hiphop frequency attached to the chaos of everyday happenings. I can almost make out the tune to it. Almost.
You’re so cool you’re on fire, like Ghost Rider burning and riding through the night. You’re so obvious you’re almost naked, and I can sense every bad thought and deed that you’ve ever entertained.
I can see you there, seeing me and saying nothing. You should type down what you’re thinking and remember me when you’re hitting the delete-key like it owes you money.
Last night, I said to you, “Lets do this thing. Lets make it feel real forever. Lets strip down and be honest, lets get naked like we’re getting into the shower, and lets really fucking expose ourselves to one another.”
So we stripped off all our scars and our skins and our precious puddles of ink and metal, and we tried to act like little living creatures for a while, instead of the frustrated freaks we generally behave as.
Her tongue’s in my mouth like she’s spitting blood down my throat. Her sex appeal is on my mind and her past is haunting my dreams. Every
heart boy she’s ever broken has been gutted and hung outside on a series of threatening spikes.
"WE ARE SEX BOB-OMB AND WE’RE HERE TO MAKE YOU THINK ABOUT DEATH AND GET SAD AND STUFF"
You say you miss me, but there’s so many stars in your sky. You’re such a beautiful thing to see twisting in the heavens, like the moon reaching up through the sky; you’re like that. You’re a bit of beauty in motion, like fire or the rustle of the wings of birds on the wind.
And me, I’m just a collector with a long history of trying to cram beautiful little things into heavy metal cages. I can’t help it; I just have these cold empty bits inside of myself, and, like some serial killer, I keep trying to fill those bits with warm human bodies.
Ah, I just want to be beautiful, and have something tasty to put to my lips. I want to breathe smoke and stare off into the distance with something really intense playing on the speakers.
I ache into you, like a sort of sensual agony. A seduction of awkward, pained moments. A bit of blood on the dance-floor; scared little hipsters straining for each other in the cold part of the night.
She dares me to read something to her; to write something for her.
I write her a page and a half of silence, and I read it to the wall when I’m alone in the room.
Her heart beats heavy, and I hold it in my hands, just for a moment.
I am so much more than a string of words linked together by a common thought.
And yet, this is all I have to offer you, here, now, today.
We’re sharping a space that isn’t a space. One of us is only taking up two-dimensions in a three-dimensional construct of everything that exists. We phase through like a shadow stepping softly across a page.
I’m sort of busy, and sort of lost, and sort of trying to find myself through looking at others. I’m letting their emotions and their insights trickle across my outlooks. I’m holding my breath until the air turns as blue as the sky.
Maybe we can all fly, but that doesn’t make us birds.
Rather we can’t be seen, and that makes us blurs.
Little spots turning into ink blots of understanding and loose affiliations of hardcore thought patterns.
Here we are.
They tied me down, they broke me, the put poison in my food and broken glass in my skin and they beat me, with sticks and lightning, and they whipped the meat from my body, and yet, still, somehow, despite it all, I never stopped thinking of you.
You and your hands. You and your skin. It’s an imperfect covering, you feel, but to me it’s the enclosure of everything I’ll ever give a fuck about. It’s more than that. It’s a battlefield, a temple for the creation of art. You’re my pornography and my fictional escapism.
My thoughts swell at the sight of you; thoughts swelling up like the ocean, like a singular body of water ready to drown the world. We could play that game again, where you hold me under. We could play all kinds of games.
"Lets just say I’m not super emotionally available, but I do like to dance."
I haven’t been alone with you, for far too long.
I’m not saying I’m missing you, just that I haven’t been obtaining you. When I aim for you, I generally hit the target just a few feet off from centre. I’m not saying I miss you.
I have an aching in myself I think might be fun to name after you. I pour smoke and cold water over the injury in my mouth, the cut you left across my tongue that’s bleeding out all my precious, special words.
You could just hold me for a bit, or if you can’t, you could just wrap your arms around my absence for a little while. I know you love to cuddle with a void.
I just want you to look into my eyes and see all the sweet nothing I keep within myself, for you.
My eyes follow her out into the world. She arms herself with a pretty smile and a loaded gun. She turns her music up loud, and handles her headphones like they’re going to explode into flames and kinetic anger.
She’s all that stands between me and total annihilation, and she’s bringing it to me. She’s stepping through my death like its a doorway to somewhere nice to be for the winter.
I flinch, and take a step back, nervously. I stare at the glass of the window until I get the shards stuck in my face. I laugh and tell bad jokes until there’s blood pouring down my face and neck, into a little puddle on the floor.
My stomach knots like it’s five miles of rope being used to haul a grand piano up the side of a mountain. Everything about me feels so useless and old when you’re around. Even my death seems cliché.
Some days I feel like such a fraud.
I feel like I’m not really me, and I don’t know who I am.
I’m trying to find myself through playing pretend, and I wind up with ink all over my fingers and blood all over my heart. I see a face in the mirror that I don’t recognize and I hear a voice in my ears that could be mine, but I really don’t know for sure.
Where am I?
What am I doing?
I’m lost in and of myself.
My map goes to nowhere but here.
I got some good news today. I got a little bit of acceptance. I got somebody to respond to me, in all my uniqueness and randomness and whininess.
I got to be seen. I got to be noticed. I got to be visible.
I was so scared I couldn’t be seen. I was so worried that I was intangible and unaware of the real ways the world works.
But here I am. I dunno how long I’ve been here, and I have no idea how long I’ll be staying, but here I am.
Sunlight pours around me. Moonlight too. The wind buckles at my back and the rain kisses me from head to toes.
I feel lucky to be alive. I feel lucky to get to be me.
I feel tears sliding down my cheeks. I feel my lips twisted into a weird sort of smile.
I stare you down, and you pick me up.
I’m not alone in this world.
We’re all here, together.
And I’m very thankful for that.