I
misknow you—like a dream, attached to one sensation. Our words were clichés,
images forged in gossip, this surface affair. I couldn’t watch you, affixed to
one position, as to avoid our faces. We died living this lie—as angry with
reality, to find fault with everything but mirrors. We cut a cake, this
fraudulent pastry, struggling with a past affair.
I
carried burdens, and gambled your pain, to glimpse the change. You were sullen
and losing comforts, as to suddenly resurrect. It becomes this chase, a search
for saviors, where loyalty is raving laughter. I perished as you
flourished—this dreaded affliction. It was some type of horrible, where addicts
squirm, offended by such behavior.
Dear
Affliction: I give it back—the hurt and pain, the deep ambivalence; I give it
back—the shallow love, that image of perfection, grounded in a series of lies;
and I give it back, this fake feeling, to ignore tragedy, as one trying at
alchemy; indeed, I give it back—the harnessed angst, the multiple glasses, the
multiple sacks; as one running, while sitting, where walls collapsed in
seasons.
We
tried to by it—the glory of stars, while spinning frustration. You wanted an
ex, as found in me, where the pain would vanish. I wanted a myth, some sort of
love that superseded the fraudulent. I wanted life, but couldn’t give life, as
one flawed and grieving. I knew not of love, as to accept the shadows, as one
found proud—where hell was heaven, this distorted view, a sequence of
excuses—to have one moment, this infinite wrench, twisting and distorting life.
