nothing
You should know that there is something worse than hate and that is unlove.
Because hate is anger over something lost, hate is passion, hate is misguided, it’s caring for the wrong things but it is still caring.
But unlove, unlove is to unkiss, to unremember, to unhold, to undream, to undo everything that ever was and leave smooth stone behind in its wake.
No fire.
No fury.
Just, nothing.
And that is worse than hate.
memories
You’ve made the air flammable. These walls are just paper. And blood is gasoline. You shouldn’t have come here, made of fireworks, if you didn’t want me to play with fire. I need a light.
You start searching for something to hide the pain, it works at first you take just enough so you cant feel anything. Then you start searching for something to replace it, you find a rush you like, and that works for awhile. Then you start searching for something to destroy you, something that will make everything go away, love, hate, pain, happiness, it takes away wanting anything, and that works. Then you’ve lost everything you love everything you hate, just everything. Thats the end.
This town reeks of vomit;
stagnant pools of happiness
which are only happiness
for lack of a better word.
Maybe it’s the undeniable recognition
of bits and pieces of ourselves on the street curb.
Reflections of smiling faces and excited voices we still hear.
Cohesive memories denied by nights of similarity.
Familiarity.
“Do you remember that one time?”
No, I don’t.
“I may have said this before…”
You have, go on.
Leaning over a toilet
spewing out our hopes and dreams.
And we mean it, we mean it
because we can’t help it, and we can’t help it because…
We don’t have to’
We don’t have to clean up the mess, deal with the stench, throw away the chunks of
pride
self control
love
that we hurled up for a fleeting pleasure, numbing pleasure.
Or maybe it’s just passing time.
But time doesn’t pass without being spent.
Numbers rolling by in forms of seconds, hours, days and months.
Getting higher and higher and we are helpless to stop it.
(!CHA CHING!)
It’s time to pay up.
It’ll come to soon, the time to say,
“This is my tab, my mess. This is what I’ve spent my time on.”
Not to soon to be caught off guard,
But to soon to have a good excuse.
My excuse?
I am not a mess, I am a process.
I am an action, not a reaction.
I am a life, not a moment.
I am a part of a whole.
Written for you by me.
