Now that you know my secret, I hope the scars on my wrists make more sense to you,I hope you understand that those muted days were an illusion of calm created to negate the pandemonium in my head.
I hope you understand that the self deprecating jokes came from a place deeper than jest
⁃it came from years and years of being a discarded doormat. Being that halfway house where soul’s transit between bitter endings and new beginnings. Being that, and only that.
I hope you understand that the inability to be loved comes from years of giving instead. Giving until there’s nothing left, giving until there’s nothing left and somehow scrapping more love to give.
⁃Like a prostitute for hope, giving everything I’ve got in exchange for the slightest glimmer in the eye’s of the other and getting off from the conviction that I’ve been of some use – even as a momentarily pacifier.
I hope my self destruction doesn’t scare you away, I hope you’ll see the intricacies in the carvings on my ruins and understand that there is love still sedimented in those rusty corners – out of sight, out of mind.
⁃But i know its too much to hope that your retinas will adjust to this darkness. Its a tricky situation – to adjust to the darkness and stay open to the possibility of light.
Now that you know my secret, I hope my silent demise from your galaxies would make more sense to you,
For there are three people in bed tonight; you, myself & my thoughts – but only room for two.