Irritation

Children have the power of curiosity. So they take things apart, and make discoveries along the way.

It almost feels as if I had more clarity as a child, because of that power, those curiosity-driven journeys.

At least I understood myself.


I wasn't afraid.

I mean, at least I didn't think I would be afraid of breaking myself down to be enlightened. Not until when I did break down.

And as that process of stitching myself together goes on, I couldn't help but feel a little... irritated.

It wasn't that the whole thing took me by such surprise, that it killed me and left me in the dark. It wasn't that I hated myself for wallowing in the well of shame and embarrassment.

I am irritated because of how much I've made it about you.

If only shaking my head could somehow shake all my thoughts into the right order. I do know one thing though. It was always about you. How you felt; how you thought.

I've wanted you so badly. Yet, because of your own insecurities and your own demons, you pushed me away with your unnecessary shield; and you, vulnerable and paranoid, hiding behind the shadow.

Be mine?

I asked. You smiled, and turned away.

It slices. The words you threw at me. Scolding me for perfectly logical things that I should have never apologized for.

You were never brave enough to claim me anyways. So why pretend that it meant something, that my mingling with other free souls somewhat violated rules that we never made up?

I begged and I begged.

I did.

Even then I kept it about you.

No more.

Ruins

How do you stand within the entanglements of events and feelings, and still maintain a perfect sense of balance?

I'm quite lost in this sequence. This foggy, empty, and consuming mess.

I mean. Am I ever going to be able to take a step back and pinpoint the wrongs?



I already know.


Sex is addicting.

It lies to you and convinces you that, regardless of everything you are, in that tense arching of the back, in the quiet force of thrust, or in that moment of ecstasy, you are loved and wanted.

Lies are all titillating and alluring, it's the glossy candy to a child's heart, and it's the longing look from a passionless lover. You grasp in a knuckle-buldging manner, hurting from the sharpness of your nails, yet it escapes, reminding you of its nature.

Lies are empty. Useless. Detrimental.

The sweetness eventually vanishes, leaving a bad taste in your mouth; and the lover at long last looks away, mocking your acceptance.

I'm living a lie.

And that lie, though passive and sublime, is ever the same as any other.

It tramples. It ruins. It steps on the last bit of hope for happiness and then I can see who I am.

I am a liar.