it's never about wrong and right

It always comes down to this: sadness. An unending, halcyon ocean of aching sadness; never overwhelming, or unbearable but persistent and perennial. This melancholy is a hanging sentence I had plunged into, without knowing when or how, only to discover that there is no full-stop - only innumerable ampersands.

There are secrets that clot the arteries in my heart and weigh me down in this truculent ocean, while I thrash and kick and splutter, only I lied - I didn’t. I didn’t fight this grief, instead I surrendered myself whole-heartedly to it, because in a twisted, morbid, masochistic sense, I like it. I like it because I deserve it, because I can never be completely sure that I exist, that I’m not a reflection or a dream of a doppelganger in an alternate universe. I like it because it made me feel, and it hurt and you know what they say - pain means you’re still alive.


But these secrets, these thoughts are choking me up from the inside and these knotted words I cannot utter. These malignant sarcomas I would carry in me and they would eat me up slowly, poison my blood and my lymph.

Perhaps someone would understand, perhaps if I whispered to them the contents of these little tumors they wouldn’t flinch, or judge but even then I wouldn’t. They are mine to bear and mine alone and I have come to be possessive of them. So even when I’m squirming with the need to confess all, to scream it out at the top of my lungs, to purge my soul of the grotesquery, I wouldn’t. Not really.

Sometimes I wonder where all these anger and frustration and resentment and sadness sprung from. Well yes, I suppose I do know, but the knowledge of its derivation only served to sadden me further since it suggests that this is not merely a phase but a pervasive disposition that had been molded from all-too-many factors dating back years ago.

And it depresses me that you, of all people, don’t understand.

incoherence is what you do to me

you invade my mind,
fuck this my mind is too incoherent
for comprehensible sentences
it’s all
cesare cesare cesare
between litanies of et in arcadia ego
and tremens factus sum ego
(insert adjectives that... well, insert verb)
no no i don’t know what i’m saying
because he’s not pretty, he’s not
he’s dark and he’s morbid
and god you’re so sad why’re you so sad?
you know i love sad men
and say it, say it once more, twice more, thrice,
a thousand times more
say "i'd die"
because you said it with such calmness,
such matter-of-factness
but you’re no monster, cesare borgia,
are you?
only you must be, to prowl in my head all day
and consume my thoughts all night.
you must be, must be,
cesare,
eleison.

God-I-Hate-It-When-My-Awesome-Story-Ideas-Get-Stuck