I don't cry over you.
As I've been told compulsively within the past four years, I don't have a heart. But you know- they could be wrong about me - it's not possilbe to have people like you when you don't even show the real you.
I write paragraphs and sentences that do not belong to a singular novel. They are the beginnings of a thousand different stories that have no ending except the vast space that continues, and continues and continues. I wonder if this is a metaphorical state of mind. My veins have been scattered. Pain does not reside as a compound state, as if this body is not mine. I cannot stay here, yet there is nowhere to continue. A silent, staring pain that dulls and nulls all senses and sense of tactful logic. A voice once told me, beauty is made of torture. I guess I am torture, contributing to someone’s beauty.
Perhaps we all give the best
of our hearts uncritically to those who
hardly think about us in return.
I write paragraphs and sentences that do not belong to a singular novel. They are the beginnings of a thousand different stories that have no ending except the vast space that continues, and continues and continues. I wonder if this is a metaphorical state of mind. My veins have been scattered. Pain does not reside as a compound state, as if this body is not mine. I cannot stay here, yet there is nowhere to continue. A silent, staring pain that dulls and nulls all senses and sense of tactful logic. A voice once told me, beauty is made of torture. I guess I am torture, contributing to someone’s beauty.
Perhaps we all give the best
of our hearts uncritically to those who
hardly think about us in return.
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