Thursday, January 22, 2009

119. Like a moth to a flame, we are helplessly in love.

Don't you see me here?

I'm tied. I'm gagged. I'm bared. I'm restless. I'm uneasy. I'm hopeless. I'm lost. I'm humiliated. I'm troubled. I'm tired. I'm scared. I'm useless. I'm limp. I'm frail. I'm mad. And all I'm asking for you is to look, and sear your gaze through the fabrics of my clothing, my flesh and blood, and tell me what do you see in there.

Because I don't see anything.

Not even the tiniest bit of compassion left to linger about. Can you look inside me and tell me that every vessel in my body is of blood and not grease, and tell me that my eyes water and aren't steely. Tell me that I fall and wound, and would squirm in pain rather that having no pain at all. Enlighten me again, because right now, nothing left in me feels real enough.

The more I look at me, the more I see a person, a thing, trying to strive for needless perfection. To show everyone that I'm here for a reason. Not just to hide in the wings or sit with the audience, but to be dancing on the stage with those who are looked upon as heroes. I feel as if I needed everyone to love me just cause I need to be loved.

I'm lonely, though surrounded by thousands each day. I sit alone sometimes, and no one bothers to walk over to talk to me, to ask me why I'm alone, and if they could stay with me. It feels as if I'm invincible in other people's eyes, like nothing could make me falter, or shed that smile off my face. No one expects me to break, because somehow I can't.

I don't want to either.

I move my fingers, and the sound of the sleek graze of metal rings in my ears. My thighs, my toes, my hands, my wrists, my arms, my neck, my body, they all sound the same to me. The eerie, quiet shriek of obsidian sliding against each other. And for what it's worth, I don't think I ever had sounded any different.

I subsist here. A strong shoulder to cry on, a lean body to fall on. Anything to support and uphold everyone else, except my own. I shower other's with praises, and pick thier spirits up when all is lost, but it doesn't matter when I can't even help myself.

So tell me, what do you see when you look at me?

Because I still see nothing, nothing good enough to ever be anything.

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