Without and within I’m becoming the epitome of empty spaces. I’m carrying on conversations with that hope of conversions becoming fainter every second beat beats time or the idea of into my heaviest head.
I’m used to being used, used to getting used to this. I used to think that I could get used to this, that I would stop feeling this knife after a certain number of stab wounds. I thought I could cover myself in scar tissue, and thereby become impenetrable. Hard. I could use the scars and marks you left behind in lieu of a metallic body, to stand in the stead of a shield. To shield me, I have raised the castle walls brick by brick, and fortified them with lies and little bits of truth wrapped around this hair and bone. I’m constantly weaving a way to be more opaque, more inside than out, more or less I’m trying like hell to become somehow less. I’ve found that I’ve been too much so many times that I have no idea how to want to be what I am. We’re supposed to be hunting for our real selves, and I want to shove the mutilated corpse of mine far enough into the deepest closet she’ll never be found, and offer you this construct instead. I want to become an illusory being, entirely false except for the tiny bits that have a truth to sell. I want to become as impossible to navigate as I find the world around me to be. I want to overwhelm to compensate for my lack of understanding and control. Above all else, I desire control. I desire what I cannot have, the oldest story in the oldest book. I am plagued by a constant doubt unlike any you’ve experienced or can name.
I can’t change your mind and I can’t change that you are in mine. I can’t make this any less real for me, or any more real for you. I’m left wishing we could hold a public vote on whether you should be sorry, whether this should all have been different.