I wish my prose had the ability to scare you. 

I wish I could make you tremble inside, I wish I could reach up inside you like a puppet and pull on all those little fucking animal noises you have instead of emotional responses.

I wish I could fucking affect you. I wish I didn’t feel so fucking impotent with you. You know what I mean. I mean ineffective. I mean like you don’t notice. I mean like I get tired of trying to have a positive influence and start wanting to just seeing you looking sad and afraid because of something I’ve done or said.

I want to be a fucking storm that kicks down doors and shatters the glass of windows in their frames. I want you to be scared to see me, and scared not to.

Instead I’m just me. I’m all bluster and smoke. I’m just an empty fucking hat and a shallow patch of something easy to get through; get over. You’ll get over me, you’ll get past me, you’ll flip through my pages with a lazy sense of abandon. 

I could write all night and never get through.
You could strike me down dead with a fucking glance.