Seeking

I have been crucified by the very components I strived to maintain onto you. You could stick a knife through my palms. It would not hurt. I was reborn out of a tomb, but I am not a Holy child.

I believe, in honest conscience, I cannot love anyone but you. This is obsession when not reciprocated. I have not had sex in nearly two years time. We were ill-fated from the day before, and the days that went. I rather renounce love than close you. I never had anyone else, it was always you, and I will not have anyone else, which enrages me in a plethora of dissonant entailments. Loud buzzing. Could a button be any more broken? The loVe BroOch?

Any man would be inconvenienced distraction. I want you to have a million girlish lovers more concise. You do that nightly. You do these minds momentarily, as an arsenal of deep breaths when you are gasping to have a clear chance at winning the rest of your life.

I will be here, writing for you, in some peculiar malice kindly anchored, which can only be love. My detached, dissenting, and unfathomable adoration.
I ramble for your laughter, sometime improved me, even when the truth is not contained.

I want to be friends again, without terror, poolside warmth and meditated beneath our peculiar and differing idiosyncrasies. You once said there was nothing we couldn’t come back from. I believed you. Can you believe me now? We never really met. I don’t think so. A crinkle in time is barely worth the moments it takes to other speeds. I want the preeminent, blinding, matter-bending symbiosis of a Quasarian nucleus and its supermassive black hole birth. A furious waltz inducting steps that take inward, as our eyes deceive.

I know you hardly bother to think of me fondly. I rather you scream in my face to show you’re alive. I have no more vengeance in my mouth. Whatever slips apart my tongue are hollowed out memories, which were truer to me than what you would have liked. Memories exist to slaughter when it pertains to our mischief — and your obvious lacking in the same vein.
I want you to be happy. I don’t know you anymore, brother. I don’t have a perfect sentence to embolden. I want to die. I really do think about the ways I could die more than the ways I could continue. It’s selfish. I am the most selfish wretch you ever could have stumbled into.
When I was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, all I could think about was how much I despised you, for you had cultivated a sheer and wonderful mirage out the cavernous profundity that would be required then when you realized you were falling flawed into a permanent divergence from normalized systematics. Everyone would gawk at my destitution with no afterthoughts. You would be perceived as a legendary figure in some magnitude, able to formulate bonds that would never sever because they were built upon that referential point. You would even abandon me, because I would be too hidden at that time to bounce backward and up into universal reality. What a betrayal I had. You thought you had it badly…I tattered me before you could do anything. Now, the whispers inflict dry poetics and doomsday arches. The redemption should have come, yes, not forgiveness, but partiality that can be humanly shared…no…because you can share that with anyone. I cannot. You can be manufactured to Heaven’s high hopes. I cannot. I do love you, and when I fraction into a billion cohorts whom seem to have your death wish sealed…remember, there is an origination that empathized. That was purity. That was me, but I’m a lost cause, and you’re a gorgeous liar.