Empty

I’m not stupid. And I don’t feel any wudden ignorance creeping up upon me either. I know you don't love me, that you never did and maybe you never will either. I’ve always known that. I’m not completely oblivious. And the thing is... I know you lie when you say it to me. When those soft utterances pour forth from your sweet lips like a soft prayer. Like those sweet nothings you whisper to me that have fallen upon hundreds of others before in the same manner of pseudo compassion. Like we’re the only two people left in the world. I think I can almost make myself believe them when it’s me you address. Like- if I can just hear the words out of your mouth... then I can close my eyes and pretend you mean them. For once single solitary point of existence such mechanical mouthings have a genuine intent. That's why I fight you so hard to surrender... to give in when you want to lay claim to my body. When your eyes burn with nothing but that primal animalistic hunger and you only wish to take and give nothing of yourself. Because I know when I push you too far you'll say those three words out of simple desperation, "I love you" and I can wrap myself up in that illusion like a shield to keep myself from hurting anymore because I know deep down inside you really don't feel them. Don't mean them but only as a way to achieve your aims. And well, my aims are simple. To make you happy... So- I don’t feel anything when I need to block out my mind. To disconnect when you place your hands all over my body. I don’t feel it because I make myself dead. Otherwise I’d start screaming for my life, for someone anyone to save me And I’d never stop because no one would hear me in the deepest recesses of my mind. And that’s how I know. When you lay beside me and wonder how I can be so cold. That it’s nothing. That when I wake up it’s empty. That you’re not real that I’m not real. That nothing I’ve ever thought I’ve felt was real but nothing!!! Nothing.I'm a little concerned about the closing. I must've reworked it a dozen times already. Written December 16th, 2001 © on Dec 16 2001 06:51 AM PST   18 • 0 • 1