One day I realised that time did not exist in the way I had imagined it to do,
And on another I discovered that we are just bags of water and bones and brain,
We slosh around, and we stumble through, and we stink, and we think.

Blind hatred is the complacent replacement for clean rational thought.
Blind love is the complacent dream for billions of lonely human beings.

We burn, and we bury, and we buy, and we break, and we violate,
And there are great humanitarians, but they are ultimately alone, as we all live and die.
One day I realised that the sun is the only thing that matters.

I used to be obsessed with you,
But now I'm obsessed with me.

I don't know what's worse,
The first or the second,
I just want to be free.

I would sleep but red eyes keep me rigid,
And when I abandon my thoughts, they turn with venomous teeth,
And cracked dreams will creep up on me and I fall,
A never ending, ever mending wound torn open and blood,
Crimson in its exit, stinging, stretching fury.
I cry out and shy away from something better.

You came out with it one night, alone in a dark, forbidden, private garden.
We'd been leading to it for months:
"So I was thinking, we should have ***"
Casually presented, I blushed, heart (etc) aflutter - "I beg your pardon?".

An impressionable 15 to your wise 16 years, it was a far cry from the declaration(s) I wanted from you,
I was caught off-guard, still giddy from just being there, but I think even then, even then, I knew.
You turned to me, eyes at half-mast but still with that infuriating twinkle to them.
Then, when I was still more or less innocent, you were the object from which all my dreams would stem.
I would plan my day with you in mind, always in my mind, my nightly rituals, my daily routines,
It was stupid, you were looking (everywhere) elsewhere, I was picturing us as two love-stuck teens.

Love itched rather than burned then, a constant presence I carried everywhere - it was oppressive.
I loved it though, even now when what we share is different, I remember, and I love it.
It hurts, and I still think about it, a lot, and nothing seems to compare to you, to us,
I don't feel like getting out of bed some days, that's not all down to you though,
And it should be easier, but it isn't, and I don't tell anyone I feel like this, because they will judge me, and they will be right to.
I miss you, when we talk, when a radio silence stretches on for weeks, and my perverse take on dedication -  obsessive.

Shadows like severed limbs creep on pallid, festering fingers to surround me,
The strains of terror-filled, bloodcurdling screams rip through me.
Then your face before me, making grey sketches morph into technicolour animations.
I feel perversely happy in that moment.

Your lips curl upwards, a snarl; a sneer appears,
You stare, glare, for heavy seconds, searing straight through me; you never did see me I suppose.
You stare, and you stare, and you stare.
I cease to exist.
One excruciating second more; your eyes upon mine.
You walk away, and everything is black, unmoving.
You always said it, you always told me:
"I will let you down".