The great thing about darkness? The darker it is, the more stars you see.

But I can’t find you in the dark.

You are surrounded by an icky bitter feeling.

Your associations are uncomfortable, tepid, foreboding, terrifying.

Your silence, your indifference, grates upon my bones and rips against my heart and tears apart my resolve.

My resolve. Resolve?

I have it. Had it. It waxes and wanes like the moon, directly corresponding to how well I can squelch my love for you that day, deep down to the very pit of my stomach, where it bubbles and festers like burning tar.

I hate you. I love you. But I HATE YOU. But I don’t. It’s not YOU I hate. It’s this dark, tormented, drug-riddled, anxiety filled imposter that has become YOU. The one sitting at the bottom of his sad dark hole, impervious to the light shining down on him from up above.

The light on which I’ve wasted endless energy to find you.

The light that’s going out.

When I see you, it’s always in my periphery. I cannot look straight at you, into your eyes.

You are blurred, smeared across my psyche, a beautiful work of art incinerated into mockeries of char on the ground.

I want to save you. I want to beat against your chest and scream in your face. COME BACK. COME HOME. COME OUT. SEE ME. SEE ME. SEE YOU. LOOK AT WHAT YOU’RE DOING. LOOK AT WHAT YOU’RE BECOMING.

But I can’t. I can’t save you. You don’t want to be saved.


My light’s going out. I still can’t see the stars.