Nineteen of us are dead and gone, we're
not coming back. Fifteen of them are still alive and well, they're
not going away. Thirteen of them say I shouldn't be afraid, and I try
not to laugh. They say that it's no great thing the Void, the Hole. A
drop in a bucket, they say, one grain of sand in a desert. I saw Mt.
Olympus on cloudless day, and it was dwarfed by her shadow.
Ever wondered what human skin feels
like? Me too. Ever wonder what human hair smells like? Me too. Ever
wonder what it's like to have someone smile just for you? It'll make
you sick, trust me. Ten times we begged the gods to show us the way,
and each time we laughed ourselves to tears. But now the corpse of
the One-Was rises slowly out of the muck and mire of my own wet
dreams. I think I saw her soul, or was that just her breast? I got
lost in her eyes, or was that just my own fantasy? Lying in the dark,
I did what I could to forget her name, but I'm still screaming it as
loud as I can. She won't let me sleep, but I've got no time for such
things anymore. I keep burning my throat on her smiles. And she keeps
running her hands over my words, her skin reminds me of summer. Her
voice is home, and her eyes are safety, but that's a one-way road.
She refuses to crawl back into her grave and let me sleep.
I slept with Tyler Durden, and I've
made love to my own Ego. I am not a beast, and I am not a god. I
refuse to let her pull me down again, but this new one, she dances
like a wild animal. Keeping me caged in my own mind, never letting me
forget what I am, meat and bone, sin and suffering. She leaned close
once and whispered in my ear, but I can't forget the way her eyes
looked when she said goodbye, such triumph, such victory, the fury
danced in them. But not like this new one, oh no, she's smooth, and
lithe, and so very damn coy. I don't think I can ever understand the
sorts of things that prick my heart in the dead of the night. If she
could, or if they could, or God forbid that I began to understand my
own mind, I wouldn't love her anymore. It's not like I am alive
anyway. My skin rots and my bones fester. I am not going anywhere,
and she's coming with me.
I've lost count of how many times I've
caught myself staring in the mirror, wishing there was another way.
Perhaps I'll find a bullet with my name on it after all, and she'll
be at peace for once. I can't bring myself to dance with her, I just
sit and hold my head in my hands and let my sorrow bleed away in the
wisps of smoke that I choke on. I can never decide which I hate more;
myself or the idea of her.
I slept with Frankenstein's
monster, and he never called me back. I am picking a bouquet of dead
flowers to show her the depth of my apathy. If I can't hold her, she
might as well hate me. If can't read her emotions, she might as well
see my tears. Always, always I can hear her name in my head. Always,
always I can hear the black dog snarling his forgotten song. How many
times will I fall into this abyss? How many times will I be trapped
by those goddamn blue eyes? How many times will I distracted from my
mission? How many 'hers' will I be forced to endure? How many times
can a man crucify himself?
I hate to imagine how good she'll look
in the summer light. I don't think my heart could take the sight of
her brought down to that level. Then again, haven't I toyed with her
enough? I held her tight, when I dreamed fever dreams, and she never
said she wanted to leave. Is that a good sign? I heard a knock on the
door, and I didn't answer. So she climbed through my window, now she
won't leave me alone, isn't this what I wanted?
I've got a golden collar on my neck, a
slave, but a slave with benefits. I crawl about on my hands and
knees, hoping someone will throw me a crust of bread, and for what?
So I can go on slitting my wrists and whispering her name? This is
not what I was meant to be.
