You understand the concept of what I do, but you cannot take in the reality of who I am. You curse at heathen gods and willful souls and talk to the ghosts of your fathers. You want to die, but you're afraid.
You promised love once upon a time, then squandered nobility and trust and respect. You fell and they watched you fall, and then you blamed all the wrong people.
You see what others cannot comprehend and make for yourself decisions to believe and selfish ideas to follow, and the world is your oyster of blood.
I see you. And I see what you are and what you once were.
I taste your bitter regret like earth and charcoal, and when I half-close my eyes, I can see the flicker-flame of your contained anger peeking out of your crumbling soul.
We say things about selfishness and human frustrations, and we believe in things because we might lose ourselves if we don’t. Maybe that’s all you’re doing, really. Maybe you’re only trying to live.
Selfish and bitter and angry. Loathing and jealous and wary. You are. And blissfully blind, physically but also mentally, and you cannot see, and this is what it means to be blinder than blind. I weep for all the things you choose not to see.
It is such an easy thing, to push a person away. We do it everyday, unconsciously, uncaring, and nobody ever wonders why. And then one day something happens, and we look back and lie to ourselves.
Perhaps I will write your stories one day. Just as how you were with her, and just as how you believed all the world was yours for the taking. I will sing your songs, and I will paint all your pictures of suppressed hope and selfishness and human pride. I will make the music you never got the chance to write, and I will keep you in their hearts.
I see the circles in your eyes and I think of fortune-tellers and magic. You speak only lies, but I will listen. You see only death, but I will look. You hear only hypocrisy, but I will not judge your heart.
If this hate is love, then I will love you. For as long as it takes.
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