I've thought of myself as open
Carelessly trusting
Does it matter what I say or what people know?
But I suppose it doesnt count
The things I've never spoken of
Just because it's never come up
In conversation
Because those things dont come up in conversation

Theres one picture I want to paint
However that may be
I need to grasp
This loneliness
I need to see it in front of me

i like the sound of it
i like to think its quiet
not as a stillness
but as a roaring tide
it shreds and it kills me under its collapse

resonate
can i tell you of how i met the void?
i long to
but the story itself is too long
i travel only to search for someone
who's ears are as patient
can i tell you of how i met my death?
i long to
if it weren't for my heart that scratches from the inside out
every time i speak of my one unspoken instant
my so solemnly celebrated instant
that haunts me and drives me and revises my charge
i take each step only for the instant that urges me forward
and forwardly marches like a puppet
i am my own string and bones of a larger hand
the one from deeper down
deeper than my own hands can reach or grapple
i can't blame myself for each and every person
i've morphed myself into being
unknowingly, unspoken
i can no longer blame myself
for that of which i have no control, that of which being myself
it is the drive, it is the core, it is the heart, it is the hand,
it is the instant of my death
i long to tell you the story of it
tell me you have the time
but only tell me if you have it
if you are ready to spend the march
not by stopping time
but by defying its presence
by shredding it into something greater than
what we could ever acknowledge it to be
it is the time spent
it is the words spent
it is the surging and the opening
and the long walk into this aching direction
let me tell you this story

why was I most murderous in my childhood
I was young and I was magical
and craved the taste of blood
like a wild woodlander
I'd think of myself that way
Now I'd laugh at the thought
my hands are only softer
meant for caressing the skin
of such a child's face

What I described months ago in my bedroom
A stranger described just the same in 2008
And I listen to him now
and it opens a portal
There is one man who knows the faux of my emptiness
he doesn't know me, but he knows that I'm there

At times I'm scared
by how much I like you