In Your Eyes

The phone rings, someone knocks on the door. I'd rather loose myself
between pages of a book and the curves of letters than live some sort
of real life right now. The distraction and the escape are treasured
friends and the only problem comes when the story ends. But there are
many unread books waiting to be devoured at this breakneck reading
pace I have developed over the years of living off of other people's
lives and lies. I have been so tired lately. Too tired to eat, too
tired to talk, too tired to go outside, too tired to sleep. The only
thing I can seem to do is follow the streams of words printed on thin
pages until the day turns into darkness and the darkness to morning.

Somewhere in between there my thoughts become deeper and murkier and
increasingly inexplicable and the only way to avoid them is to replace
them with others, preferably belonging to someone else.

Throughout the day, pangs of panic express themselves on my face and
how do you explain that the only thing your brain can think are
nightmares and the only way to make them leave is to live someone
else's?

It's human cruelty, human frailty found within the people who have
come the closest that makes me want to scream, to run away, to cry
forever. My heart hasn't been broken, it has been murdered
collectively by all of the evil people I am now just realizing slowly
ate away at it. For so long, so many parts of me didn't want to
believe that so many of the people I called friends were nothing but
broken souls looking to improve their condition by destroying mine.

…

This time I am sure. Hearing the disappointment in his voice when he
asked that question, trying to brush off my answer as if its meaning
was to be renegotiated at a later date. Like I might change my mind.
I'm not sure I should have been insulted, especially when considering
the messenger. But more than that, it was the hurtful reference to
past immoral transgressions, the ones that convinced me that morality
was a worthless standard for the determination of justice.

We can still fuck around, right? Those were the first words. What do
you mean you'd feel guilty, since when did you have a conscience, he
spat like an accusation. I might love him. That was my response, that
was my defense. I don't know if I said that because I meant it or if I
just needed a valid sounding reason to refuse his request. And I have
to wonder why he can't just go to some bar and take some drunk girl
home with him. Why does he keep calling after all of this time. He
says it's because of the sex, but since when did men become so picky.
It must be more and I have this feeling his persistence is bred from a
hatred I might never be ready to explain. It's more than a feeling,
it's a fact. I took something from him that he can never get back.
Something that he wanted so desperately that when I took it away,
anger burned clear in his eyes. Now, when he mentions it, only a
sadness remains but his actions reflect a hatred that lives somewhere
deep inside of him.