old s.f

When I hate everything I touch because I’ve touched it
Does that make me a fool or a genius
And if I whisper goodbye in the dead of night
Does that make me a coward or a quitter
I won’t ask if I could ever be a fighter because the only damage I could ever cause with my fists
Is to myself
And I won’t tell you that I’m a lover because we both know I’ve never loved anything but you
How can that count when you’re the one that keeps me up at night and makes the ache apparent
Because loving you isn’t a mistake but sometimes I think it should be
And I’m not bleeding but maybe I should be because I can’t think anymore
Somebody tell me what’s the point of thinking when my head is already
Disconnected from my body
Every hope I ever had of being more than a pathetically small child
Was dashed the moment I realized that rain doesn’t stop falling because I want to play outside
Days don’t get brighter because I’m sick of the darkness
And leaves don’t change colors just because I want to watch a miracle happen
It hurt when I was made aware that the world is so much bigger
But it didn’t hurt to know that I wasn’t important because I knew that from the start
The hope that was crushed wasn’t that I was important
But that I would one day become important
And when that hope was crushed
I cried a river of words that dried up in the wake of the sunrise
Because lightning never strikes the same place twice and it should sometimes
I’m sick of it missing me
I’m sick of always being the one left untouched
The torment doesn’t go away and the bitterness never turns sweet
Because some things are meant to hurt and some things are meant to burn
We don’t pretend we can fly because someone’s already made a metal machine that pretends for us
What’s the point of thinking for ourselves when we’re called foolish in the process
I wanna drown every sorry breath I’ve ever taken in ginger ale and lies
Because what’s a gypsie to a family man other than fifteen minutes in a bathroom stall
And pressure never looks the same when we’re standing outside the blast zone
What would you do if I shattered into a million and eleven pieces
But only thirty seven of them landed at your feet
Would you assume it was because I was trying my best to save you
Or would you weep on your knees, convinced you weren’t good enough to shoulder the burden
And I’d cry if you walked away
Trust me, I do it every night
So does that make me a hopeless romantic
Or should we drop the romantics and just fuck right now
Because I want you to understand that the waves that break on my head
Aren’t the same as the ones on the beach
Mine feel like anvils
And you’re the shackles chained to my feet with tubs of concrete encased around them too
Dragging me deeper into this well of truth
Or is it lies
I can’t tell the difference anymore between a penny and a dollar
Because it’s not the monetary value that matters anymore
But how long she’ll dance on the pole for you
If I ever meet a stripper in a wedding dress
I’ll assume it’s true love
Because I make assumptions that make me a fool
And you make decisions that leave me feeling small
I tripped and fell down a rabbit hole that was much too small for the dreams I wanted
And what’s the point of dreaming when the clouds are always far too high
Things only sparkle because they’re new
And when they tarnish we don’t love them as much anymore
I hate everything I touch because I’ve touched it
And touching it has made it grow old
—  s.f., Part Eight