My Insides
What do you do with all of this?
I was happy with you. Partly because your eyes sparkled and you said you wanted me to be happy. You were strange and beautiful and precious and mine. I was too much, in every way, and when I came to you in tatters, eye swollen and limping, you finally pulled away. My violence on your self-image along with my persona were finally rejected. I was warned: I would be struck down for daring to say I was happy with everything in my life. The sun trucks no hubris; the wax in my wings melted away and I fell. But it is not about you.
Y'know, I was never happy with you. Not once. Our entire relationship was a funeral, and the break-up was just the end. Everything after was mourning for something that was never alive. That is sad, but true. Even so, it is not about you.
I was happy with you too, regardless of how much you hurt me. The third in a series of happinesses, the third in a series of ones that I would have married. But, for an accounting different than I am not used to, you did not want me. You knew what would happen, you chose anyhow. It is hard not to take it personally. I will, perhaps, come back to you too, in years, like I do the other two. Perhaps then, we shall rekindle, and I might warm myself around that little fire. But then there may be too little left. Of me this time, and not of the other. Regardless, and irrespective of how recent, this isn't about you either.
I have, perhaps, been happy for approximately a month of all of years alive. You'd think I would be better at misery, with all this practice. Even with the magnitude of that statement, it isn't even about that either.
It is about me.
I wish I didn't need. There is so much excess in our society, I should be able to exist solitarily and without feeling so lonely (like I always have). I want to spit in the face of dependence, so much that I would happily die than have needed help. I am a knife.
But as I would lay there, bleeding out, I wouldn't be able to only think that I leave now because I cannot help myself up. That I could not carry myself into the massive safety net that exists everywhere in this bloated, beautiful system. I would also think that I wished one of you was there, holding my hand, and that you had felt the same about me. And perhaps the most pathetic thing is that I would want you to be there even if you didn't feel the same, because I feel like that about you.
That is what it is about.