You were the one, but it wasn't your choosing and, in that injustice, there was truth, hatred, anger, lust, sadness - living. Sun-streaked walls don't give a shit about you. The woman who covers her face will only slink by, avoiding you for the same reason you avoid yourself. Can you blame her?
You belong in the night. Your counsel, the rats and vermin who take over our sanguine streets when the sun gives up. They crawl and feed, blood on teeth, gnashing. They are honest and you are not. You flinch when you see them. Imagine how they must feel about you.
You are not the sum of your mistakes. You are your mistakes - they are brands that match the scars, lacing forearms.
You close your eyes and feel clammy hands. Soft fingers ply the gentle delusion that placates the rage - the rage makes you want to be one of those with bloody teeth. Flex your arms. Test your fist against the face of someone weaker than you. This is the way the game is played.
Count to ten and then start looking; you won't find them. They slip between cracks and you aren't even sure what we're talking about anyway. Vague, I know. It is our intention. Specificity is a lie. Your answers don't even begin to address the problem. You are the sharp crease in a lawyer's tongue. You are younger than you used to be.
Regression is a form of near-inert inertia. You remember some things so vividly, your brain is selective. Whether it pleases you or not may have something to do with the way you have treated your brain. It may have something to do with the Mayans or global warming or the Rothchilds. It may have nothing to do with anything. What did you expect?
It's coming back now. You turned your head and bit the inside of your cheek until you were choking on the tart, red blood. You told yourself it would pass. Don't think about it. That was a mistake. That one will follow you. Trailing that blood, the taste still rich and vibrant.
Your hands are claws. Sink them into the dirt and pull out life. Pound your fists and tear the hair from your swollen head. There are no saints here. There is no redemption.
You wanted her to hit you. You wanted scars and blood and destruction. Too many facades, you decided you were above it. Who the fuck do you think you are?
You are an earth destroyer. You are the most wicked of all the beasts, you who will not accept the terrible dignity engendered by your selfish soul - the one you don't believe in.
He will come for you in the darkest hour. He will smile and you will sink back into a revery that you never imagined. He will forgive you, though you don't deserve forgiveness. But you'll take it. If you respected yourself more, you would riot. The walls would crumble and you would kill, eat the hearts of your enemies. But you are civilized. You do not attack with tooth and nail, do you? You lurk in the dark with whispered lashings. You play the angles and try not to get your hands dirty. And you feel superior, though your hands should be covered in filth, excrement, blood ... you should try to sleep through the screaming, but you will hide because that is what you were taught.
My heart aches. My soul burns. You say these things and hope that they will be your bivouac. Trafficking in words is a coward's bet. Still speak. And listen. Feel the spittle on your face and blink, slowly, fighting the rotation of a world you never understood.
Isn't it precious? Do you like the new furniture? What will you do when the time for working is done, will you then seek the piss and loam that is your birthright? What will you hide behind when the curtain falls?
You try to think of noble things. The times you stood up for "justice" and other saccharine myths, but it is all ignoble. You are so turned around that your fall is only fair. No one can spin so much and not feel the helicopter's stare. Your streetlights are cameras. Your Bible, a decoration that you never touch. It is there for show.
The day is wrung out. You are a failure. Why can't you be like the others? Why can't you play nice? They weren't nice to you? Turn the other cheek so they can hit you again. That is your salvation, mixed nicely with sin.
You have traded authenticity for convenience. You have distinguished yourself, but not in the way you intended. You tried to rise above the mass of whirling madness when your proper place was right in the middle. Where the screams are loudest.