|
|
|
For some dear people that I truly don’t know whether I hate or just pity. Those people who gave up when they had no prior tragedy. For those who did have such a tragedy…I am unsure how I feel about you.
Dear Phantasm…
I’d sit to tell you every thought, every worry, every want…but I can’t. I’d wish to explain every night, every day, every tear…but I won’t. And if I could take it all away, I just can’t say…if I would, because I can not imagine this pain I will bear for my entire existence might have never existed alongside me. I write this “mope”…for absolutely no reason, maybe my conscience has finally eaten my soul alive. My soul…do I have a soul to say? Or…am I now just another murderer in some Gods eyes?
I have the power…to imagine every sigh you’d make. My imagination itself prays for suicide, because it imposes sick hallucinations in my vision. The mirror lies more than it ever had before…it refuses to reflect the correct face. It’s not my face! Why isn’t it my face?? We both know why…because I am a killer. You loved me didn’t you? An unrequited love…so pure…so whole…but I can not love. Or is this pain, only existing because of love, disgusting emotion…just a testament to the fact that I loved too much…I loved myself too much…
I don’t regret this…I’ll never regret this out loud. But in that instance I’ll feel this every day, hour, minute, second, every single instantaneous moment! I will feel the fact that my body should have changed! I should be alive, I should be happy; I should be so much more than this sorry example of a woman. But…I loved myself too much. And now I’ll never admit it out loud. I’ll never admit pain…I’ll deny myself every urge to cry, but most likely…on the day I will die, be it by my own hand, an act of destined coincidence, old age, or disease…I will remember my final decision. I will remember all the nights when I had thought it’d never be me. The memories of the anatomy of the female body I learned back in my sophomore year…what should happen to me if I changed. I will be haunted in my last moments by my F*CK up…my f*ck up. My choice to kill you. And then, on my death bed, after all those years of denying my soul, I will remember and I will pray. Or I wont…I wont be like the typical story, I’ll die without thinking without caring…but I doubt that because I doubt everything I am now. I will die remembering my face mixed with his…and maybe then I’ll cry. Maybe then I shout out…though maybe I’ll only manage a whisper, that I regret. Maybe I’ll beg someone I doubt, someone I don’t truly believe in to save me from this heart shattering pain. Maybe I’ll plead for some promise that I won’t spend another eternity locked inside my own selfish sentiment, and my body frozen within a torturous daze of remorse and self pity. Though with what I have been told…I might just beg only to find that not only will I be sentenced to an eternal damnation of sufferance by my own perverted mind, but also be gouged, burned, beaten, and ripped apart bit by bit every day, every night by the demons that I welcomed so easily before.
Although those are just stories…nothing I believe…so maybe I’ll just lay there…on my death bed…and never utter a single word, never remember, never wish, and die without thinking of my biggest, my truest, my greatest, my most devastating, the only REAL…regret.
But I am not dead yet. Nor do I plan to be anytime soon…unless my habit catches up to my hands and lungs. Yes. I will admit that, shyly at first…but then boldly, brazenly I will shout it out to any asker. I am an addict. I drink, breathe, and snort…a soul into myself which is not my own…so I can dwell inside my body for another day without having to face reality.
Reality? This is real…real…it’s strange you know. I look at this computer…it’s there…I know it is…but is it? Who says it is…am I typing this? Really? Are you sure...? I’m not. No, I am…but why does it look so strange to me…addiction…
“Mope”…my mope to you. Darling…can I call you that? Do I have a right to think that? No I don’t. I was your God…and I was the judge…I sentenced you to something I could never comprehend…and now I do the same to myself. I’m sorry…so sorry.
But I will never explain to you, I can’t bear or manage to. I won’t ever exclaim this pain, I will always deny the urge to cry, I’ll create an addiction which is easier to bear, and I’ll make sure that nobody knows. I won’t care. I will never be sorry. I won’t ever love. Love isn’t real. This isn’t real…I’m so sorry. So sorry. So selfish…
[[ btw this isnt actually about me, i wrote it for an old friend ]]
Aeternum Vale Amor · Sat Apr 25, 2009 @ 02:14pm · 0 Comments |
|
|
|
|
|