At This Point
You love me. You hate me. You promised to be there for me for the rest of our lives and then nonchalantly grunted, things change. You watched me sacrifice and struggle only to stab me in the proverbial heart at the height of my efforts.
You’re a friend whose there for me to tell me about myself when I’m wrong and absent from my triumphs under the guise of “I’m not gon’ kiss your ass.” You smiled and appeared enamored by who I was and not what I did but it was what I didn’t that kept you from accepting who I truly am.
Under the spell of passion-ism, I am worthy of your attention but in the natural sunlight, I’m not worth taking a picture. You want me to live so I can continue to feel like dying. Too eternally spiritual for the ramifications of suicide and too carnal at the moment to let my prayers to their job. So I exist to love you and you exist to hold your love I so desperately crave like a melting icicle above someone who’s spent 80 days in the desert…but you move the icicle away from my lips and back to your heart to freeze again.
You are my best friend and I love you. I just wanted to matter. I just wanted to be someone of importance to you. It means nothing to have the masses adore me if you ignore me. You want me dead. You act like it. You hold me, push me, kiss me, hit me, screw me figuratively and literally until the seeds of me are drained from me. And my soul is next to seep if I don’t seek to understand that you were the answer to my prayers, the star of my nightmares, the leader singer in the most fabulous love song and head dancer in the cabaret of my discontentment.
I love you. I am surrounded by angels, demons, fans, haters, friends, enemies, frenemies, followers, murderers, parole board members, judges, therapists, ministers, counselors, promise keepers and breakers — happiness givers and soul takers.
And at this point, you all look alike to me.
