Every day I don’t humiliate myself, I feel stronger somehow. Staying away from that which would destroy me is to possess a small victory.
It seems that the things I want are those that come with the danger of hurting me in ways I cannot cope with. The pain of the loneliness is great, but nothing compared to the wretchedness of humiliation and abandonment. I hate myself for my cowardice but at the same time I compliment myself for not walking willingly into the slaughterhouse thinly disguised as shelter.
I’d rather walk through a moonless night on frozen wasteland crust than feel the burn that your agonizingly graceful apathy brings. You can blow me off your shoulder like a speck of ash. I’ll float silently and invisibly to the ground, unnoticed.
So in order to not have to endure this, I move quickly and wordlessly through urban landscapes. Every day I feel a sense of accomplishment.
When I think of you, all I see is a banded spitting cobra with unmoving, unreadable black eyes. Mouth slightly open. Always ready to attack.
And now the part that I hate to admit. I am frail and you are all I think about. I am powerless to stop. I have always loved you. Long after you forgot my name. Long after the leaves left the trees and fell through frozen air. I was never strong enough to stop the pain from crippling me. This is my last effort to get your respect and maybe a drop of your affection, full of pity as it may be.