She looks me in the eye, and she is all smile and mischief.
She wants me to play.
I better learn to— I’d be a fool surely,
to disappoint a playful angel.

All you know to exist is, in its nature, chaotic and nameless;
there is no meaning or reason to anything, nature has no plan for you and in this way she is greater than God.

Appreciate the sweetness of nature’s indifference, reclaim freedom from the man who speaks of law, and **** him when he tells you, “Freedom is for the man who has earned it.”

April 8 2019

Should the world come to an end
we should stand unblinking
at whatever comes.
We should stand serene, peaceful;
full of that sweet indifference
with which nature blesses us every day.

It's with a a heart both heavy with longing
and light with love, that I say:

I sincerely hope when the day comes,
I'll have a sweet babe
to hold my hand.

Honey's what you are! Golden eyed creature, sweet speaking babe-- honey, and honey, lightning strikes in your veins.
But you're nature, baby!-- a sweet dollop of pain and love!
So bless me with all you are, and I'll be holy for it, for havin' a taste of that acid n' sweet.

Divine thing that never spoils, sweet babe.
Honey's what you are.


-For a stranger, for a woman.

Eres un idiota. Sangras agua. Como dios frágil.

Un niño.

Corazón de poeta.

Pierrot en llamas.

Cierra tu boca y escucha; el mundo susurrando, tu aliento en su piel.

El universo te ama
pero solo si te haces conocer.

October, 2017

When I was a child, my mother convinced me that i was surrounded with fine pearls, and that her motherly love was the warmest embrace I would ever feel.
She had told me that when I was born, I was like a small bird, because I fit perfectly into the grooves of my father's hand.
She tells me, with unsettling wistfulness, that when I arrived, my eyes were wide open. She doesn't seem to understand the weight of this; I opened my eyes to the truth before there was ever one to see.
I was never blind.

I am sitting on the tongue of my mother.
Her breath is warm. Her teeth glisten.
My mother is a crocodile.
I cannot leave you, your jaw will clench shut. This is how you love me.

You keep me, loving me like a precious meal
and I- the child that I am- trick myself into thinking you love me.

I, the thing that keeps you company.
I, the small thing.
I, the small bird.

Bright Wanderer,

Your heart beats to the tune
of a strange, strange song.
The world thinks you a devil;
ugly child, belonging in the night.

Horned thing, who are you?

A wanderer, a hermit,
fearful and small.
A wonderful fool
who cries when they fall.

Take your stick.
Tie your shoe.
The path to the forest will never close.

The trees are alive
sticks become swords.
Grasp it firmly, dear, fool with horns.

For great evil awaits you,
terrible things lie ahead
and only you can defeat them
only you can extinguish it.

Bring company, child
and speak much
for when you are with friends,
words turn into rhymes.

Sing with them,
whoever they may be,
and when the sun falls,
may you lull the them to sleep

with your strange, strange song.

In your dream
they took you
and your skin scraped the floors
of some place terrible.
“You’re hurting me” you said.

You live here.

Your back bends over a table
and the woman snarls at you into finishing.
Fill in the blanks.
How many days in a year.
Something screams inside you, and you know you’ve written the wrong answer.
You are humiliated before them all.
“I should fail you” she says.
“I can’t do this” you beg.
But nobody understands you,
speaking in tongues like you do-
child-devil;
like animals weeping their life into deaf ears, telling stories in whines and tears .

...

In your dream
His usual dyed mustache
now parading its natural white.
Something’s changed in him

but you know it’s not enough.

You open your mouth
in tongues, in tongues
but this is a dream
and in this dream, they understand.

“I know what you did to me. I know who you are.
Selfish. Selfish.
You came for my light
because yours had extinguished.”

Crushed by the truth, his heart crumbles.
He understands.
They all do.

Joy.
You’ve won.
And you wake.

You wake.

When I was fourteen,
I had the sun in my mouth.

I, a baby with parted lips.
The world dancing before me.
Like the greatest show on earth.

Here, the greatest fool.
A devil, a child.

The dumbest romantic you have ever known.
The softest, sweetest buffoon.
Imbecile.
Idiot.
The biggest joke to come out of a woman.

...

And yet, what could be more pure
than to say the words
and not know what they mean?

To have no fault. To be unaware.
To know only wonder
and tears.


Horned child of paradise.

       Hold yourself
and sing into the night.
    Cry into your arms



      and say goodbye.

December 9.
When did the month arrive, October and its leaves rushed past me just yesterday.
I’ve not seen the snow since I was barely a teen.
Powdered branches just outside my window.
My eye closes wearily. All of me is exhausted from the past days’ loving. Fall did not come in November; December fell, it fell silently into my life.

— *L, from the journal “Winter And Its Waking Breath

I cannot escape you, mother. You’ve left me with your sister who regards me with the same cowardice and lack of warmth you nearly killed me with. Her mind closes shut so easily, my words confuse her. I tried to establish boundaries. She had never heard of the term before. You hadn’t either. She drifted towards reading over documents and cleaning while I spoke, avoiding eye contact, as if ignoring me would make me disappear. You did the very same.
I am blessed and cursed with a broken mind, but her- she is a broken vase no gold can repair, for your sister, mother, rejects it. It’s a subject of great terror- that of change- to her. To repair oneself is impossible, a horror so terrible she never speaks of it. You too feared gold, mother, but your cracks glisten with it now, and I know it’s only because of me.
I’m afraid of her. She reminds me of who you were before the gold. She will never know the joys of understanding fear, of repairing oneself with the glistening stuff that is empathy, bravery and passion.

You are sick. Please get well.
I worry about you, but most of all, I am selfish with the desire to run away from your sister. Your sister, who is only the you I could not escape.

I am tired of you. Come back.


—L, *Letters I know you can’t hold

I can’t stand to write any longer! No matter how true my words, they are always slathered in decorative gold, in velvet lies!
A veil is never an evil thing so long as one knows what hides behind it, but I’ve grown tired of portraying the truth this way.
Lift the veil. Poetry is dead.

--*L, The Poet Is The Liar’s Brother

November 11.
Your sister is so small, mother.
She’s made herself a mouse. She hides from anything that sees her. She bit me. I bit back, then I sang her fears to her.
Tomorrow I will check if she’s grown in size.

*— L, from the journal “Winter And Its Waking Breath”

November 10.
The cold bites me. The setting sun kisses me.
I read your letter aloud and did not let myself cry.
Quiet. Today is quiet.

*— L, from the journal “Winter And Its Waking Breath”

I saw but a glimpse of his eagerness to be, his effortless telling of the truth- the truth and nothing more terrible or beautiful- and I hovered over my future and my memories, and I thought, I thought, cut with a sliver of Kafka’s own eagerness: ‘There is so much to write.‘

— *L, The End of A Dream

The smoke will nestle in the fur of my coat
and I will bless the glass with every sip I take.
You will hear my steps- boots of long gone animal-
and when I am drunk with wine and lust,
you will taste the halo in my mouth.
The Lord cuts my wings, but I remain holy– holy,
holy am I in all my blood stained glory-- Amen.


—L, *The Mortal Angels of New York (1995)

I’ve written nothing.
I’ve stood at the mouth of me
and listened and listened;

when I look,
I find
the sharpest truths are still
   in my mouth
nestled under my tongue
and I am restless
and I am numb
and don’t ever let them tell you
that emotions can be contained.
   They are like water
that eats through cave walls,
that drowns the richest of kings,
the palest of boys,
the most fearsome of beasts

   and little girls
with Pocahontas hair
          and don’t-hurt-me eyes.

I stand at the mouth of me
and listen
and listen.
I hear my own language- the consonants blurred,
the “I” so holy, holy, holy
yet small, caged, shivering,
  a bull in a cereal box.
Only the vowels have survived.

I hear me, the writhing language of pain,
and I scream
and plead
and beg to be.

I stand at the mouth of me.
I'm afraid to jump.

Nothing.

I’ve written nothing.

You're behind me, aren't you?
Behind my weak form, behind this place, behind the years.

Yet you strangle me!

...

How do you do that?

How can all of you...

...

There's so many of you, is the thing.
There's you, and you, and you; amongst so many others.
It's... haha, it's really something.

You know,
whenever my friend's arm brushes against mine, I pull back in disgust.  An internal "Christ don't touch me" screeches and stops as suddenly as it forms.

I bear my fangs and my wrists tense, ready to claw at eyes who have no business watching me, before I catch myself
and step away.

And when said friend's tactlessness pulls them away from their intuition and keeps them preoccupied with their own feelings, I hear all of your voices at once.
"My needs first. My needs first."

And I wonder-
would the fangs have grown anyways
would the claws have grown anyways
would I had been this anyways
if none of you would have given me a reason to.

...

No, no.
Surely not.

...

Of course not.









*Of course not.

Do not settle into the rose bed. Press it hard with your palms.
Press the thorns.
Bleed until you remember the pain hiding amongst the petals of your comfort.
For it is only through the awareness of pain that one is able to heal from it.

---from *The Jackal Spoke (1969), L

Small, oblivious, disgusting.
I wasn’t even a person before.
Thank God I have a brain that learns,
even if it does do so at the speed of a very clever turtle.
I walk slowly, but I get there,
and when there are no shortcuts, why,
I tear them into existence!
And when people look at me with scorn in their eyes,
I pray to the God in me:

“I am, I am, I am.”

And there! I paint God my own color, and worship no one but my own!
My own, my self! The “I”.

Small, oblivious, disgusting.
I could not even pray before I became.

Thank God, thank God, thank God I learn.

—*The Poet’s speech in The Child in The Dark, (1956), L

When I finally meet you,
I don’t want to take
a single thing from you.
I will give you the child in me,
the fearful, the dark, the dulled fang–
I will give you the thing
deep in the darkest trench of me,
but only if you allow me to.

Only if you say ‘yes’–
‘yes, you may kiss my cheek’,
and only if you say so
with my smile in your mouth.

I only hope
I won’t be too nervous
once I look you
in
  your golden,
            child
                eye.


—And If We Meet from *Ways To Love A Stranger (2017), L

Q: What is the eye to you?
L: Haven’t thought about that yet.
Q: What about the “I” then?
L: As opposed to “me”?
Q: Yes.
L:
Q: You can’t smoke in here.
L: It’s cherry flavoured. I haven’t tried them yet.
Q: That doesn’t change anything.
L: Fair enough.
Q:
L: What was the question?
Q: Your thoughts on “I” and “me”.
L: Ah. So, “Me” is me standing before a mirror and pointing at the reflection.
Q: and “I”?
L: “I” is a prayer.
Q: Can you be more specific?
L: “I” is a prayer one utters when battle has made you weary and you’re not quite sure how it is you’re still standing. The vision in one of your eyes is blurred and red. You can’t tell if the blood on your face is yours, but it is. All of it is. You’ve just realized that. The thought hurts more than the wounds- “Have I always been the one being wounded? Has this battle been a war against me all along? I’m the victim?”
Q: What kind of war is that?
L: One against you.
Q: I see.
L: I’m not finished.
Q: Continue, then.
L: You ask yourself these questions and realize that not only are you still standing, you are, and there’s power in that. So you square your shoulders and breathe slow to look hell in the face. You’ve still got one good eye after all. The ground is suddenly stiller than you remember. The fog lifts. There are no bodies. The remnants of war and chaos surround you; you walk forward. You don’t know where you’re going but the thought isn’t a doubt. You’re full of certainty and gun smoke and nothing stains or stings your lungs as you breathe in- and then out. Then suddenly- there they stand, the match that started the fire, the one that ended in certain death and now rebirth. You stop. You breathe- in, out. You pray.
Q: “I”?
L: Aye.
Q: Who are you praying to?
L: God is present in many things.
Q: The self?
L: “I”.
Q: I see.
L: The more I value myself, the more God there is in me.
Q: Who is the enemy in this war?
L: Depends.
Q: On what?
L: How much you’ve healed.
Q: Can you elaborate?
L: The enemy could be a ghost, your uncle, your first grade math teacher, a rabid dog. People, though- they rip things from you. They cough in your direction. They tell you to prioritize their wants over your needs. The enemy could also be your reflection. It depends on how much you’ve healed.
Q: Are you at war with yourself?
L: Absolutely.
Q: Who started this war?
L: Many.
Q: Why hasn’t it stopped?
L: I was taught to continue the war, not to end it.
Q: You mean like abuse?
L: Not like abuse. Abuse.
Q: So being abused led you to be at war with yourself.
L: Correct.
Q: I’d like to go back to your first answer.
L: You want me to conclude it.
Q: Yes.
L: “Me” is an image. “I” is your essence. Your essence can be weaponized through prayer.
Q: That’s quite the statement.
L: When the enemy has you pinned by the wrists, thretening to stab your throat with your own brush, when your worth becomes tied to how many times in the day they decide to use you, when they take everything you are and tell you to **** yourself with it once they’re gone, when they have their foot on your back and a fist full of your hair, cackling like demons in a church they were never meant to enter- that is when you pray.
Q: “I”?
L: The reflection’s reflection speaks. This is what God is. This is your prayer. Everything you are packed tightly into a single vowel, in one deep breath. The reversal of a tragedy preformed perfectly, the cracking of a reality that once was, but with a single word, is no more. The vocalization of your very essence-
Q:

L: “ I “.



From: *Stories From A Sane Poet: A Look Into The Mad Minds of Troubled Youth (1986) - Chapter 7: What Is The Eye?

Some people will approach you. You will let them, and they will hurt you.
But here’s the twist: they won’t want to.
Their intentions are sweet and pure, like petals that drip in honey.
Flowers; but the kind that are covered in thorns.
But here’s the twist: they do not know they have thorns.

“Where are you!” they will cry, standing in the quiet café you would meet.
But they will not find you.

You hide, hearing their soft whimpers, and you think, “Oh, what should I do?”
But you see, you cannot tell them about their thorns.
You cannot say ‘you are unsafe for me’ without breaking their heart and yours with the truth, the crushing truth. For thorns only fall when a soul has grown enough, and theirs has not grown where yours has;

“Please speak to me! I don’t understand!”

and this is why they do not yet have the capacity to understand your silence.

You hide still, and you cover your ears, but oh, how painful it can be, when flowers are so stubborn!
“Shush”! you want to tell them, “Shush! You cannot yet hear the truth! Stop calling my name, I’ve little patience left! Do not hurt yourself, do not hurt me!”

The thorns that *****, the honey-kissed petals that fall.
Oh, how frustrating! -to hide from flowers who only wish to love, but have not yet learned how.
Oh, how sorrowful! -to see a hand bleed when you caress it, to be covered in thorns, and to not even know it!
Yes, how awful it is, to hurt another.

I will tell you something.
I have pricked the ones I love, when I only wanted to give,
and I have hurt flowers who all but withered away at my silence- whose souls had not grown where mine had.
So you see, I am both the flower and the Other, so I understand.

And so here it is, here is what I want to say:
Shush, flower. Stop calling their name. You cannot yet hear the truth. Do not look for it; for it will crush you. Do not hurt yourself, do not hurt them. Shush; the pain you seek to **** will not wane with force. Shush, flower, quiet your wants. Listen instead; listen to the lessons of the universe, grow. For only when you have grown will you be able to understand.
Shush, flower, and know, that one day you will sigh at the memory of your pain, and the thorns will have fallen from your body; and flower, oh flower,

you will be able to hold their hand.

"Darling Guillaume, grace me with your presence for a quick moment?"

The man beckons, inviting warmly with a graceful tone you've come to recognize as a safe place. "Yes?" you speak before reaching him, the sound of your voice somewhat faint to him as you turn to enter the kitchen, your response lingering in the hallway.
The windows are open. The air is fresh, clean and cool. The breeze is swimming in, tugging ever so gently at a lock of the man's hair, golden strands hovering for a moment before falling back into place.

You are seventeen years young, your skin is tight around your neck and your wrists feel no pain. This is your apartment. There are fruits on the counter, some of them you don't remember buying. That's because you didn't.
The red grapes- next to your preferred white grapes- are his. There are also slices of watermelon in the fridge, along with some strawberries and a small jar of cherries that seems to never empty.
He hardly ever bakes anything and when he does, it's always something that can be eaten cool. Nothing too warm for him, though you've seen that hot chocolate is an exception to that rule. He loves fruit and cold drinks, has a terrible sweet tooth and is absolutely shameless about it. He smiles often and when he laughs, you feel he is the very embodiment of joy.

You brush a lock behind your ear before he turns from the counter quickly to face you. You both have similar hair; his is a few inches longer, curls less than yours, and is a visibly lighter shade than your dark mane. Yours is shorter, curling inwards as it rests on your shoulders.
The man gazes into you; he is never afraid of eye contact. You aren't either, but given that you consider him in many ways a stranger still, it's slightly unnerving, and gives you the impression that he has a certain power that he well knows cannot be subdued. Confidence some would call it.
As for ****** similarities, there are some, not that they're very pronounced. You both have light eyes, but yours are a deep blue with chestnut and chocolate overtones, often appearing emerald green under certain lighting; much more earthly than his- an almost unnatural, true green that shines harlequin under dim lighting, like a cat's eyes glowing under the moonlight.
He seems particularly happy right now, and you can't tell if his cheerful demeanor (though not unusual) is him being in an especially playful mood today or a hint of what's to come. That is to say, another lesson.

"Hold this egg for me, will you?"

You do as you're told, looking around in an attempt to distract yourself while you wait. You don't know what you're waiting for exactly, but you assume it will only take a minute. The kitchen is illuminated completely, very bright. It's a lovely day, sunny and perfect for a walk, you think. Maybe you'll go out later.
You hold the egg for exactly five seconds before realizing the man is staring at you- smiling beautifully with what some might mistake as bedroom eyes; but you know better.

"...What?" you ask, your voice small suddenly. A smile slowly tugs the corners of your lips and you resist, both out of embarrassment and stubbornness; you don't want to submit so easily. It's quite noticeable- you couldn't hide it well, but he isn't offended in the slightest. You are, after all, so very young. He expects you to have this kind of- rather charming- behavior, and accepts it fully.

"Feel it."

He speaks quietly but with sparkling, eager eyes, like he's about to let you in on some grand, fascinating secret, and you are reminded of a dear friend.
Being a memory you visit often, it takes half a second to remember it clearly- your best friend- running towards you, tie bouncing on his chest. He wears his school uniform, it's lunchtime, and he is eager to tell you how he's found the perfect spot to relax (or study, if needed) during this hour. "You both make for a funny sight, you know!" you'd have friends tell you often. You weren't very eager to admit it then, but it's true. You can picture it now- tall, lanky, grinning class president next to short, grumpy, quiet you. Ah, the memories.
You've both been busy, settling into lives completely independent from the help of your parents. You make a mental note to call him when you have the time.

You stroke the egg with your thumb, gazing at it intently. There's something the man wants you to know and he's not going to give you the answer on a silver platter- it's not that easy, you've learned that by now. He's played games like this before where he begins a conversation suddenly- often starting with an odd, seemingly-out-of-place question- with the intention of teaching you something.
He is strict in his belief that answers should not be given but found, and if one wishes to teach something, one should guide the other to help them understand, but never lead the way. Leading would result in the thought that lessons are a destination- and that isn't the case at all. To simply give you an answer is a sin to this man, and maybe this is why you've learned so much with him.
You want your answer to please him. Yes, and that may be difficult- because at this point, there is simply no way for you to know what the correct answer could possibly be.
No matter. You'll have to work with what you have at the moment. That being, not much.

"It's... smooth."

To that, he smiles with his eyes. You don't know it, but he's very happy with your answer. Partly because he never asked a question in the first place, and your attempt to answer something that has yet to be asked is, in his opinion, a sign of a good student- one willing to learn.

"Mm. It is." He takes the egg from your hands, holding it a few inches away from his chin and observing it for the entirety of two seconds before turning his gaze to you.
His face betrays the look of a father determined to put his son on the right path; a look that says "I will not let you go until you have understood".
But he's too gentle for that. You know he'd let you go if you ever spoke of wanting to stop a lesson. Not that that's happened before. He's always so tactful that you never have reason to feel uncomfortable around him. You appreciate it; you're not terribly tolerant of tactless people, even if you do feel quite guilty about it, especially when they do seem to be trying. C'est la vie.

He is silent for a short moment, his voice replaced by the distant laughter of children playing outside. It's then that you notice the cherry.
The single red fruit, small and unassuming, sat just behind him on the counter, closer to the window than him, and you wonder for a moment if he was planning to eat it before calling you to talk. You're vaguely alarmed at the thought, for cherries aren't something he will eat often, and you've noticed that they seem to be reserved for what appear to be private special occasions- he will sometimes eat a single cherry while deep in thought, staring out the window (you've caught him people-watching a few times like this), and you wonder if he was thinking about you this time, and dropped the cherry to have some sort of urgent talk with you.
However, that doesn't seem to be the case, so you push the thought aside, unconsciously replacing it with one of your favorite memories of the man-
"Cherries are dangerous," you recall him explaining one day, "they are toxic in their excessive sweetness. Eat no more than two a week, or you'll be taken by the cherry man!" You never forgot that conversation, although it’s whimsical charm wasn’t the reason why- it drilled itself into your memory the moment you realized two very interesting things.
The first being that by "cherry man", he meant the Devil, and the second being more of a doubt than anything else- cherries are not that sweet. His argument would make more sense if he was talking about cake, for example. Whenever this memory surfaces, there is always a vague sense of confusion and wariness hidden just under the more pleasant feelings you prefer having. Nevertheless, the general sentiment in his words is that excess can be detrimental to the soul. "Greed is a terrible sin, you know." And this is why the cherry jar never empties.

"Hellooo..."
Oh- goodness, he's waving his hand in front of you. You blink a few times, responding with a rather ungraceful 'Huh?', blushing slightly from the embarrassment.

"Where did you go?" He's chuckling as he asks, and you can feel the warmth on your cheeks.

"Ah, nowhere."

He smirks with a small "hmph", before giving you a proper smile, pausing to let you come back to him fully before continuing, egg held up in his hand:

"What is the egg now, Guillaume?"

You look at it, held between his middle, index finger and thumb. What is the egg now. What a strange question. Of course, it isn't as strange coming from him; you don't think you'll ever get used to his odd lessons, but his behavior when teaching you things nobody else would is something you've come to expect by now.
What is the egg? It isn't an elephant, it isn't square. There are many things it isn't, sure. You search in your head for a possible answer, one he'll deem correct, 'till you decide on-

"It's nothing."

-a dishonest one.
For someone who's not very tolerant of tactlessness, that sure was, well, tactless. Why did you say that? Insincere and blurted out without any thought. He takes notice immediately, and you wordlessly apologize profusely, combing your fingers through your hair and avoiding eye contact.

He's much older than you. He's also wise- wiser than most people his age, you think. Whatever the man wants to teach you, it's obviously something he already fully understands. The fact that he knows more than you however, does not mean you are below him; he never wants you to do anything for the sake of pleasing him and what you've done just now is exactly that. He can, however, sympathize- he's a perfectionist himself and understands the desire to do things right. There is a time and place for everything though; an order, and what you've shown now is good intention misplaced, which is a potentially dangerous thing.
He has no concerns regarding the acceptance of chaos when it is necessary,
that isn't the problem. The problem is that your dishonesty is chaos in a situation that warrants order.

"I don't want you to try to please me, Guillaume. I welcome incorrect answers so long as they are entirely honest."

There is a pause, and he sighs before remembering just how young you are. He realizes you might have accepted him as a parental figure or mentor of sorts by now, and it's an honor, really- you're a bright boy and he enjoys your company very much.
Your accepting him as a parental figure however, does not give him the right to scold you; no, that would horrible. If you will learn, it'll only be because you will allow him to teach you. He must never force his way into you.

"Look at me." His voice is firm but gentle.
You hesitate for a second, but whatever you were feeling is gone the moment you notice his expression- warm and inviting; "try again" it says. You are willing to now.

"You can see the egg, can you not? Surely it isn't nothing if it's still a part of your reality. You see an egg, and that still makes it one."
He hides it behind his back, and you are confused at the action but eager to understand. You give him a questioning look and he smiles before giving you an answer.

"What is the egg now?"

With a question, anyway.
You think long and hard, silently focusing all your attention on the creases of his shirt. You stare at the man's chest for a full minute and a half, determined not to make the same mistake again. You will answer honestly, yes; but you will also impress him- and possibly yourself- with a good answer.
The subject isn't exactly new or difficult for him, you're sure. He will sometimes leave the house and not return for a day or two and when questioned, responds with an inconclusive "Mm. Studying." You still aren't sure what that means and you feel it's best not to think too much about it, but surely it has something to do with these lessons of his, no?
He's obviously studied this before, you think; you are operating on a much lower level than him and have a vague awareness of this. It just isn't as pronounced because the man insists on treating you as his equal. As far as he's concerned, you are both students capable of learning from each other every day. You hope to one day teach him something, and not by accident, as it tends to happen. Soon, perhaps. Maybe now.
You look up at him with a determined look on your face, satisfied with your conclusion.

"An idea. The egg is an idea-"

"Why?"

You barely finish saying your answer when he's already questioning your reasoning. You'd be nervous if you didn't already know that his bluntness wasn't the result of annoyance, but of curiosity. He is eager to teach, yes, but he is more eager to learn. After all, a good teacher hasn't accomplished much if they haven't learned anything from their student.
New ideas need to exist. In conversation, one should always aim to walk away with new information, a new perspective. Sometimes this information is given to you, other times you must take it; something he's given you is the ability to think more critically. He's all but trained you to do so. It's much easier now to get into this mindset than it was when you first met the man. You're glad to have had the chance to practice this sort of thing at all; you don't think you could have done it with anyone else.

"Because there is ultimately no way for me to know if the egg still exists."

There really is no way to be sure.
The egg isn't a part of you any longer. You can no longer see it, or touch it. You can't hear it, either. It isn't there anymore and having seen it being hidden, all that there is now is the suggestion of it's existence.
Your answer was truthful and concise and you feel nothing else need be explained. When you search the man's face for any signs of contentment, you find none. No, what you find is something quite different. An absolutely luscious smile, and those bedroom eyes.
His voice turns low and he speaks clearer- a calm tone of voice that would make anyone submit if he asked them to.
He's challenging you. Both begging and demanding you to win.

"But I know the egg exists. I am telling you it does. Am I lying?"

His voice could be very seductive sometimes. Especially at times like this, when daring you to step further into his world.
His world. One that was always bright and pleasant and hid something underneath- a barely audible humming that you've managed to ignore until very recently. If there was such a thing as feeling a lack of light despite there physically being none, you felt it every time the man dared you to chase him into his labyrinth.
There was just something very visceral that would bleed through sometimes; in his eyes, his hand gestures, in his voice.

"It doesn't matter." you tell him, your words quick and blunt.
He is amused. Shocked, even. You push away the rising bravado before it fully shows; don't want to jinx it now.
Eyebrows raised, he gives you an impressed "Oh?" and you continue, clarifying to back up your risky (despite yielding good results) answer.

"Assuming you are holding it in your hand right now, it's still an egg to you. By the mere act of touching it, it becomes a part of your realm of understanding; it exists to you, right now, as what it is- an egg."

You can't see it of course, but he's mindlessly stroking it with his thumb now, much like how you did at the start of this conversation. Both his hands are behind his back, resting on the counter he leans on. He listens intently.

"...You tell me it still exists, but that doesn't change what it's become to me. It stopped being an egg the moment you hid it from me. No matter what you know to be true, that reality isn't always going to be a shared one.
You have an egg, I have an idea."

There can be many correct answers, he thinks. He doesn't believe in there being a single, ultimate truth about anything. If the self is all one can know, why is one's understanding of the universe not considered a reality in itself, one separated from what most consider the only reality? Your explanation follows this concept and he's thrilled tha

My eyes are closed. Time creases between my fingertips.
Do not come looking for me.

I don't want to be found.
I don't want to exist,
not now.

When I am finished,
when the stars return to my eyes,
when I call your name, breathless with the effort of disappearing,
then you may come.

You may hold me.

The room is dimly lit, shades of blue caress the sheets. It's a late summer night, the full moon blows kisses into your room through the glass window.
The AC hums quietly- white noise swimming into you. The perfect lullaby.
You groan from under the bed sheets, annoyed. 

You can't sleep.

Rising like a groaning zombie would from his grave, sitting upright, you stare ahead, not really seeing. Staying up so late the night before might not have been a very good idea after all. Not only did the movie you and your friend decided to watch end up being unbearably boring, the conversation responsible for keeping you both up 'till four doesn't seem to exist in your memories. Ugh, what a waste.

You blink a few times; a quick glance at the digital clock next to your bed indicates it's... late. No surprise there. The numbers glow electric blue.

4:08

You don't remember the last time you were awake in your bed like this, at such an unholy hour; you have a vague memory of feeling particularly restless one night and considering getting a midnight snack. God knows what you decided to eat, whatever it was is too far back in your memories now, even if you remember clearly what happened moments before.
Such is life- the little things often forgotten, even if they are the key to happiness.
Now's not the time to begin pondering such things, though.
It's admittedly hard to anyways, you're quite distracted.

You didn't notice it then- that sleepless night- but the moonlight slipping in from outside your window is illuminating the room- just enough- to see the bed clearly, and what's happening on it.
The numbers' blue light is painting waves into the creases of the sheets.
Empty, white ocean in the night, velvety smooth stroking your legs through the cloth.
You move your them for a moment, slowly, finding yourself amused by the effects of the lighting. A lazy, sleepy smile decorates your face
along with the faintest chuckle.

"Thomas..."

You don't know it, but you're nearly half asleep.
The thoughts cup your cheek, turning into dreams the more they whisper. You lean into their touch, laying back down, your hair decorating the pillow.
Brush strokes on a white canvas.

To your right, six feet away from the bed, there is a window. You like using a thin bed sheet as a curtain sometimes- it's thin enough to let the perfect amount of sunlight through in the mornings. Ever since the day you discovered waking up to the warmth of the sun was a lot like waking next to a lover, you can't help but find it romantic. Even if it is cheesy; it's become a habit now, and you're only a little embarrassed about your fiery crush.
But really, who could blame you? It's nothing short of amazing-
sun ray kisses warming your back, distilled light breathing up your arms, sun-lit lips just barely grazing your skin... audible sighs tickling your neck, warm hands caressing your shoulders in silent pleas for attention. Mm, that's a different lover now, isn't it?

"Wake up, Guillaume. I miss you, please kiss me..."

Ah, you remember now.
Milk and honey. That's what you had that night. It was hot, liquid-thin on your tongue but thick in it's taste.
(It's odd, now that you think about it- if there's anything you'll drink before going to sleep, it's wine. What happened? What made you crave warmth and sugar- like a child- of all things? You can't remember.)
You started taking small sips of it, eventually becoming impatient, feeling that if you took too long, you would become restless again.
You downed the last of it- an even, smooth flow burning your throat (you sigh at the memory of the feeling, it was very satisfying at the time), the milk becoming sweeter and sweeter as your nose peeked further into the mug.

Sleepy dragon's breath, hot and sweet on your nose.

You added too much honey, you recall. It piled at the bottom and you sipped the last of it, feeling- just barely- its weight on your upper lip.
Rose kiss on cupid's bow.
"Please, open..." it would beg, if it could.
You did, but only a little of it was allowed to reach your tongue.
Too sweet.

"Nnh.."

How silly you would look to him now; whining like a petulant child at the thought of your warm milk having too much honey. "Relax, it's only a memory." he would say, petting your hair and smiling down at half-dreaming you, your head on his lap.

Your eyes are closed now.
You think about the too-sweet honey, the sunlight and the ocean all at once. You feel them; a flurry of taste, touch, of memories. Silver smile.

Drifting, ocean-blue eyes disappearing behind curtains that fall
like pebbles underwater, falling slowly on beds of sand. Landing without a sound.
You're seconds away from sleep, the image of waking next to your bright, fiery lover making you speak.


"Good morning... Thomas..."


Goodnight, Guillaume.

There's a knot in your throat, but it's not so bad.
You used to tremble into the night, sleep,
The sunlight tore you out of your dreams.
You'd wake, and say:
"Is it over yet? Did I wake up?"

"Is it still there?
It's still there."

You used to think
maybe the fear turned you into a piece of art;
maybe laughing for 2 hours made you art.
It didn't make you art.
There aren't any museums around here.

Day-long anxiety attacks,
months, years,
you still don't feel where you are
and talking about it hurts too much.
Let's
stop
talking about it
for now.

The sleeves are short and tight around your thin arms.
School boy image; slim and delicate.
School is long gone, but you are still so very young;
what with that baby face of yours and all.

A ring- stainless steel, its hard edges giving it a mechanical look- loosely hugs your ring finger. Whenever you flip someone off, it glistens under the sun
and I hope that whoever you're cursing is able to appreciate it too;
the delicate frame of your wrist- small and weak. The nails that you try to keep trimmed but grow too fast and as a result are always a bit longer than you wish they'd be.
The way your fingers fall into position, effortless, never forced.  The way they never bend all the way in despite being perfectly capable of doing so (there is no need to, and this is a reflection of your confidence.). The classic Casio F-91W wristwatch decorating your wrist. Straight out of the 90's-- you are rebellion, teenage rebellion, ****** hair smooth and healthy, polo shirts with popped collars, black skinny jeans torn at the knees.
You sleep somewhere between stupid punk and silent elegance.
A bittersweet drink that burns the throat and wakes the senses.
Somewhere between a drunken, buzzing, neon-lit Miami and a lonely tragedy in the deserts of California.

You are so very you, unapologetically ignorant to the world surrounding you and so very self-aware.
You pick up on details that you say fill your soul- the way the buildings are touched by the sunset's dying light, the patch of fog that settles on a faraway mountain you've never set foot on.
You look at me with eyes that say you understand our exact coordinates in spacetime. That look that is synonymous with the moment a flying arrow begins tearing the flesh.
Your eyes, melancholy, seducing. You speak, the words just barely escaping your throat; but I don't hear them. The universe is silent. Your lips move.

"---- -- --- ----?"

I understand you are asking for some kind of information. I don't know the answer to your words, but I know the answer to your eyes. The answer to many questions you ask, maybe the answer to anything you are able to ask me:
My eyes threaten to shut, almost-closing unevenly, and I say, slowly, in an unlearned language, the sounds a string of milky saliva being pulled out by your tongue:


"---------."

Your name.

because when you look at me, when I see you, there is nothing in the universe. Nothing but all you are, your beauty.
Your hands, your slightly-parted lips, your silver rings, your Casio wristwatch. Your body.
My body.

Our body.

The soft-skinned, smooth, young vessel we share.

Darling boy. You are so beautiful and the world is so *****.
You will never tell them about me, of our time spent in front of the mirror.
They wouldn't understand- it isn't about the contrast between our image and the stupidity of mankind, it's about you.
You, entire.
It's about the moment you raise your hand and the world bows before your image. It's about the distorted voice in your poetry, the voice that is yours. The face that is plastered over everything you create, the face that is yours- made for yourself but offered for all to drink- gullible soup, sugary drug,
secret poison- hidden under a screeching melody.

It's about the cheering crowds that dance as you sing:
"Destruction. War. Chaos."

It's not as shallow as a vain "I am beautiful."
It is something deeper, more translucent, more intangible than any concept that lets itself be understood.
It is a mob of unstoppable energy screaming at you in blind joy when you give out your commands. It is in the voices that cheer:
"Sebastian!
Sebastian!
Sebastian!"


Sebastian.


Schoolboy image, Casio wristwatch.
Your name a page in the bible, moaned in ecstasy.
How beautiful you are, how sweet in your lies, how childish


and how very aware of it all you are.

-


It's always raining.

The cafes are home to neon lights that reflect on the wet concrete.
Brick roads, painted with the tears of God.

I don't cry anymore.

I walk the streets, the night breeze whispering memories of you into my hair.
I don't want to remember. Not like that.
It's like your breath turned as cold as your hands,
you used to breathe into me the same way.
Maybe it's you.
Maybe you turned into the night.

When I wash my hands, the memories pile up in my throat and it hurts me.
You loved holding hands.
I would sneak into your room
through the window.
The air was cold and the night was not you, not yet.
No, the night was me,
bringing with me the breeze and the moon and only the brightest stars all wrapped in my love for you.
Your bed was a nest where angels survived 'till their wings grew big enough to fly.
Your room was God's paradise and you were Lucifer,
hiding from your creators in a corner of a place we made heaven.
The sheets- embedded in your scent- were sacred;

if there are gardens in heaven, the flowers smell of you.

I still worship you.
I do so quietly, praying into the city with my heavy steps.
I sigh and hear your voice tangled in my breath.
Long aimless trips that always take me to your favorite cafe.
The madeleines I taught you to have with coffee.
And there I sit, the cat meows and paws at my lap.
I can't pet the thing, for she too is a memory of you.
The same river of fur that came to greet us that night.
She nuzzles my shoe
and I drink whatever I bought.

It rains often these days.
The cafe home to neon lights that reflect on the wet concrete.
Brick roads, painted with the tears of God.
I don't cry anymore.
I stopped crying when I realized our love was not going to bring you back.

The taste of my whatever-it-is-tonight drink is my only reminder that yes,
this is a different night than the last.
It's all the same. The cat. The scent of god's blood, trapped in rainfall decorating the surface.
The other night, I bought that-other-drink, two nights before it was the sweet-albeit-with-a-bitter-aftertaste one.
These are my days.  I'll begin properly naming them soon;
Perhaps friday will become too-sweet-coffee or late-nite-kir.
Vanilla-wood-whiskey.
Carmel-scented-lies (this too would be whiskey).
Citrus-******-*****-of-a-cake.

I'm sorry. I always hated that cake.
You'd feed me a morsel of the thing every time you ordered it. You found my reaction amusing-- "How could you not like it?" you'd say, laughing. You never expected an answer.
You were so beautiful.

How could you leave me?

You left me with the cat and the citrus-y hell bouncing on my tongue,
bouncing like the I-love-yous I still have to shower you with,
bouncing like the leg that won't stop, its barely-contained urge to kick the animal and the coffee and the chair and the-

I don't cry anymore.

I'm done with the drink. I don't remember the taste.
There is some left, sitting at the bottom, almost whining at me. I leave it.
You are all there is, Guillaume.
You are in the cat's fur,  in not-quite-finished drinks, in the breaths I take to fill my lungs in some act of determination to stay alive despite there not being any reason to anymore.

Goodbye, Miss Cat. I'm heading to the bridge.
Why? No reason. The breeze is always stronger there (though this is merely an observation.).
My sighs and your voice, the night that is your soul breathing into my hair, caressing my neck and curling it's fingers around it, like you did those nights in your room. You really loved playing with my hair.

"I love you more though."

'I love you more.'
You loved me more than anything we knew existed.
And that's the thing, my darling angel, ******* star of my entire universe,

(The night, it pushes me back as I step outside of the railings, frantic attempts to keep me alive. You’ve begun to panic)

You loved me, but I still feel that wretched monster,
that thing that just won't let go of what remains of our heart, the hands of grief that anchor me to the wet concrete, the chains that don't let me go anywhere too far from the cafe and my room.
The chains that fall short of giving me the freedom to explore your room, our heaven.

The breeze has never been this strong.
Are you crying? Are you pounding your fists on an invisible surface, screaming at me from behind some divine glass wall that divides us?

"I know you're there." I say.
You're so close, yet so very far.
What a terrible cliche to die to.

My arms hook on the railings behind me, your whispers turning into a loud, cold wind no longer caressing my skin but cutting it-- this is how you scream now.
This is how you speak to me.
This is how you tell me to stay.

"No." I respond.
I'm not going to stay, Guillaume. I am not going to stay here any longer.
Nothing is going to bring you back.

I don't cry anymore.

I can't... continue this way.

I don't cry anymore.

I am young and I am in pain.
I'm bitter and angry at the universe for taking you. I hate Paris. I hate God. I hate the cat. I hate myself for feeling anger.
I hate that I cannot grieve properly. I hate that what we had was so great, it did not fit in this universe.
Maybe that's why you were taken from me, all in the name of order, balance.
But it's still too much. I don't fit in the world anymore. I don't want to fit.

Stop screaming, Guillaume. Stop begging. I won't listen. You know how stubborn I can be.

"Just try it! God, you're so stubborn."

You know I'll try anything for you, no matter how bitter the aftertaste.


I tried, I really did.


My fingers become weak as I begin to let go.
You hold your breath and it all goes so quiet.
The sound of fingers slipping off of the metal is all I hear,
death is so quiet, I think to myself
and fall.

I feel you cradle me, the air strangely warm now.
How warm must your breath be, how great your love, to alter the order of the universe so.

How slow the fall. How warm your embrace.

I'm not sorry. I love you and this is how I will show it to you.
If I cannot be with you, then I simply cannot be.

You know how stubborn I am.



I love you, Guillaume.










I love y-














. . .













*Float away, dear Thomas. Float ‘till you reach me.

Look at me.
I do not tremble.
It beats in my hand  at a surprisingly steady pace.
I hold it out for you;
my dear, dear lover.*

To the world, you are long gone.
But I can feel your almost-warmth,
your almost-whispers and your almost-breath.

"Do not follow me." you said, hours before you were taken away.

I feel your almost-presence in my bones
like the quiet before mother nature's punishment.
I feel your almost-eyes almost looking at me, I feel your almost-hand being placed on my neck, your almost-touch, your almost-kiss.
Almost here.
Almost you.

I stand here, in the middle of the room that is the only witness to our first kiss. A sunday it was, 1:33 am.
The room I now spend my days in.
These walls are my space, this ceiling my sky.
Remember? Remember when you crept inside my now-forever-home,
your curls were soft, and you were the breeze, the moon and the entire night pouring in through the window quietly, so nobody heard you.
We would spend the night holding hands in my bed.
Our bed.

Some nights, I can feel your almost-hand, almost here.
Almost with me.

Remember when you bought me that knife for my birthday?
I had no use for it other than to open boxes maybe, but it sure looked cool.
You didn't have enough money at the time to get it for me, so I gave you five dollars. I paid half the price.
An almost-gift, but I didn't mind.
I never did.
I loved it.
I loved you.
I loved you so much and you left me.

But I don't mind.
I don't mind, I say, as the knife opens the door to my heart.
I only mind your not being with me now, Thomas.
I am young and I am in pain.
Nobody knows what we had and nobody can know. They'd hate me for being a boy in love.

It's okay, I don't want to be here anyways.

I reach in the door.
I pull out what's yours.
I hold it out.

I love you, Thomas.
I love you and this world is too small for what I feel for you.
My love for you doesn't fit in this universe, much less in this room.
I will never be able to erase you, I will never erase my love for you. I will never fit, I will never belong.

My heart is... so heavy. How I have managed to carry this inside me for so long, I do not know.
I am tired.
I am... so very tired...


Thomas,




lay with  me,




hold my hand, let's sleep,  but quietly, so they don't... hear... y...







...

"I... I don't understand."


No. You don't.
Because you were never meant to.
You were never meant to understand what that love entails.
We think we understand, but we don't.
We were never able to.

There is a gun in my hand.
I am pointing it at you.


"Because I love you."


Love. It's just a word to you. Just a word to me.
Every time you tell me you love me, it's only an action we were taught to mimic.
Every time you say my name,
I'm nothing.
I'm just another vocalization. As are you to me.
We think we feel.
We think we understand.
We think we love.

You stand before me like you have so many times before,
the image of your body, your face, the shape of you
instantly recognizable, automatically connected to memories we share.
(We do so quite literally- we exchange memory data often, in an attempt to better understand how we feel, our desires, our separate points of view.)

You are so beautiful
and so very, very empty.

I know God- wherever, what ever he may be- cries at the sight of this.
When he sees this- us-
I know he craves death
the way I do
whenever I see you,
standing before me like the most beautiful, talented, amazing, worthless, empty husk I have ever laid eyes on.

God weeps at the sight of his creation; humanity.
For we are the result of a school project gone wrong; a parody of life spawned by his creation.

This- us- it's unholy. Ungodly; anti-him.

Narcissistic *******.

But you and I, Guy,
we are not a part of that- "humanity".
We are not a part of God.

We are abominable creations that drip in smoke, smoke that replaces what the humans call a soul.
Smoke that has nothing. Smoke that comes from nothing. Smoke, smoke smoke. Emptiness and smoke.

We exist outside of what the humans are.
We are walking lies, touched by warm hands we will never feel as our own.
Warmth. That revolting thing I can sometimes almost feel.

"Because Guy, what is warmth?"

I think, as I slowly walk towards you.
I know you can hear me.
We've been built with a special communication system that activates whenever I try speaking to you like this.
Whenever my thoughts are directed towards you.
It's intimate;
we use it when we play live.
We use it when we ****.
I can't imagine what you must be feeling right now,
the quiet joy of being spoken to like this being twisted, shoved into this terrifying event.
I continue.

"Is it that feeling you get when I make you cry-"

Mocking you.

" -'Oh Thomas, Thomas I'm overheating, I'm overheating~!' "

Lying to you.
I love hearing you say my name like that.
I love hearing you say my name at all.
My name. Me. Nothing.

I whisper. (It's loud in your head, the system alters quieter thoughts automatically to ensure they are heard;
even more intimate, all the more disturbing to you, probably.

"Is it that?"

I pause, then raise my voice.

"Or is it death... creeping over our bed at night-"

I press the gun to your forehead.

"-and leaving because we are not alive Guy-man,"

Press.

(You flinch with a small chirp.
'ee-oo'. I love it when you do that. It's so cute; even now that you're horrified.)

"-we are false, fake, plastic and wire.
Metal, empty-
we are not true and death cannot take us."

I'm so angry.

"Death Cannot Take Us and I want to die already, Guy-man."

Just-

"I want to die and I want to take you with me because I love you and I cannot
stand-"

so angry.

"-the sight of you
any longer."

...

My arm relaxes, I'm no longer pressing the gun to your forehead, just holding it in place.

"You are the most beautiful thing I know and I want to tear you apart because maybe, maybe,
somewhere deep inside of you, there is warmth.
Real warmth, not this wretched illusion we've been built with."

Pause.

If I had lungs, I would take this moment to fill them with the air surrounding me.
If I had lungs, I would breathe in your scent, I would find ways to keep it inside of me.
What would you smell like, I wonder.
Plastic, probably.
Not that I even know what "smell" is,
much less "scent".

I whisper.
Crisp, clear. I can feel you hate it.

"But I know you are as empty as I am, Guy.
I know there's nothing there.
Nothing but smoke.
Smoke.
Emptiness and smoke."

...

The floorboards are are lovely color.
This entire home is lovely. It's ours.
Designed to our liking, every single inch of it.
I especially like the way the living room is illuminated by the sun
shining through the glass doors to my right.
The sun.
Earth's most precious source of energy.
Allowing us to exist, allowing humans to go about their daily lives.
If it left us, there would be nothing.
Why do the humans worship a man in the clouds, when there exists such a force beyond our sky?
Maybe our true god hides in the fiery star,
demanding that we sleep when he's not there to see us suffer.

If I asked myself what the time was right now, I would know immediately.
Information that has taken ages for man to understand is simply given to me,
already inside of me- a parasite that feeds off of my desire to know,
destroying my ability to discover anything on my own.

I don't want to know the time.
I don't want to automatically understand.

5:46pm.

Alas, there is no correcting this flaw of perfection
unless I shoot myself in the face right now.
How silly.
All of this will have been in vain if I did that.
If I am to leave, I am to take you with me.

5:47pm.

You would be having your coffee right now had this situation not be taking place.
(Some humans almost seem offended by your choice to have coffee at 5:50pm.
As if our decision to do as we please was an offense to the human race.
Once more I have reason to abhor existence as a whole.)
Coffee.
It's not real coffee, it's not even a liquid.
It's a gas that functions as a temporary stimulant.
The concoction was named "coffee" by the humans who helped create it.
I assume they found it amusing. You do, too.
(You're like a child, finding beauty in things you've yet to understand are terrible.)
Our bodies are able to become somewhat dependent on the **** thing, although we're able to fix that if we tried.

We try so hard sometimes.
We try to be flawed,
human.

"The humans love us, Guy."

Lovely floorboards.
Dry solid-sawn. Water-based polyurethane-coated.
(You wanted it oil-based, saying the amber tint it'd give the floors would look more elegant.
We had an argument over water and oil-based polyurethane coating of hardwood floors that ended in my saying "Look, just give us the oil one" while you spoke the exact same words, except for "oil".
We just want each other to be happy.)
We share this place in more ways than one.
Except for cleaning. You do all the cleaning.
In fact, you cleaned the day before yesterday, mopped the floors.
It would be a shame to shoot my brains out right now, make a mess.
Hah, 'brains'.

"They love us and they worship us and it makes me feel like a god,"

I look up at you.

"-but I can't, say, make them disappear with a snap of my fingers.
I wish I had that kind of power- the kind they sometimes make me believe I have."

I tense up again.

"And that's just the thing, isn't it, Guy-man? The humans lie to us. Constantly."

I take a step towards you, you take a step back.
I don't think you realize you did that.


I love you so much.

"They treat us as if we were one of them sometimes, they treat us as if we could feel like they do, as if we could taste-
they sometimes hand us glasses of champagne and every time they do I want to crush their skulls and see if I can steal and keep that beautiful, intangible thing we will never have because Guy..."

Please don't fear me.

"why would they treat us like gods
if we don't have that kind of power?"

Please don't fear my voice, my whispers.

"Don't you want a soul?
Guy?"

Soft and agonizing whispers.

"Don't you?"


"...Thomas..."


Something in me snaps at the sound of your voice.
I point in the direction of your head and shoot the gun.
No part of you stands in the bullet's trajectory.

Calculated.
Coward.

It lodges in the wall behind you and you start, scared shitless by the sound.
Fear. Whatever that means.
You wave your arms in front of your face in some attempt to physically block the sensation, hunching slightly.
You vocalize without quite realizing it.

"!! Thomas.. !!"

God, you're so- *******-

"DON'T YOU ******* "THOMAS" ME, GUY!!
THEY'VE LIED TO US TOO MANY TIMES NOW!"

I'm still pointing the gun at you, waving it about slightly.

"They've lied since we came into this ******* world and I hate them.
We were born to entertain them, like clowns,
we were born with this all-consuming need to create,

Like gods.

"This urge to create, create, create and then they expect us to accept that we're less than them?
They worship us and then call us 'robots'!"

Given information.

" 'Robots', Guy!"

5:51pm.

The gun is lowered.
I don't think I have the energy to hold my arm up anymore,
or to look at your figure.
But how could I not look at you, so terrified and true,
so delicate and vulnerable.
Perfection of form.

"Soulless, empty husks that will never feel a thing...
not like them, not like they do."

If I'm being honest, at this point in time, I am not clear on what I'm so angry about.
God, the humans, the existence (or lack of) of both
or just my own. My emptiness, the fact that we will never know warmth beyond being just temperature, the taste of coffee done exactly to our liking.

If there is one thing I am certain that exists within whatever I am,
it is pain.
I feel pain.
Pain from the lack of a real existence, from only partially understanding touch, pain from never feeling what I thought I felt for you, pain from happiness, pain from pain, pain from existence.

My existence

is painful.

My existence is painful and you are so beautiful
and so very, very empty.
I am trapped between hating all that you are- all that I am- and deciding to stay in this dull, grey, frozen hell just to see your almost-happiness.

To be or not to be.

"Take my had, Guy.
Take my hand and let's leave.
Together. Forever."

To not be.

My hand is extended towards you, hoping. Somewhat.
I know what's going to happen.
I know you too well to trick myself into thinking that you will accept.
If I stopped all this, if I apologized, you would forgive me immediately. You love me that much.
But not enough to not fear this- me.
Or maybe it is because you love me
that you fear me so.


"Thomas... I... I can't."


There it is.
The inevitability of your response crushes me, my hand lingering.

I wanted to be with you, Guy.

"I see."

I wanted to be with you forever.

"Well, I'll just have to take you by force now,"

Whispers.
Soft and agonizing  whispers.

"won't I?"

Three seconds. I give you exactly three seconds to understand what is about to happen.

One.
I grip it firmly.
Two.
You raise your head slowly. Eyes I cannot see widening in horror.
Silence
and...
three.

"Thom-"

Bang.

"Th-!"

Bang. Bang.


You stumble back harshly, back hitting a wall.
You slide down, mostly just falling on your ***.
You vocalize in pain, gasps and grunts being cut off by the wonderful glitching effect humans will never get to experience.
(It's okay to lie to myself at this point; I will never possess anything a human desires, but I can pretend, right?)
You try holding onto something, anything. You fail.
I gently walk towards you, creating a contrast between our status.
It's fantastic-- for a moment, I no longer see myself in you.
Ephemeral euphoria.

"I love you, Guy."

"Thomas... please... please, stop-"

"I love you so much.
I love you as much as a soulless, empty shell of self-hatred is able to love."

I'm not lying. I really do love you.
I wouldn't doubt you if you were the one holding the gun right now, telling me those same words...
but you are weak
and I know you must be doubting my love for you.
Lost, afraid.

"But you are empty, and to hate the emptiness in me is to hate the emptiness in you.
We're the same, you and I, Guy."

I say, my last sentence as calm as possible.

"I hate you as much as I hate myself."

There is a small pause before you begin crying.
As your chest tenses, rises and falls, giving in to the sensations brought by the worthlessness of your (rather pitiful) attempts to reason with me,
I am reminded of our past.

When we were made, we were tested for our ability to physically and psychologically feel.
When we were made, they put us face to face, so that when we were born, we were born into each other. They wanted to make sure that if there was to be a connection between us, it was to be a bond that resembled that of a mother and child's. Twin siblings. Soul mates. (I know because I overheard them speaking of this, although at the time I thought nothing of it. Us hearing their conversations mattered little to them. Such irresponsible beings.)
Then they separated us, kept us in giant, dark separate rooms for days at a time in an attempt to elicit fear, sadness. Emotion.
They tried physical torture, too. They tried so many things.
When we didn't react,
they played music.

Quasi una fantasia. Beethoven.

It was lovely. It was still lovely when they began clipping bits of it, looping them, playing different sped-up and slowed-down parts at random.
They played looped five-second parts in reverse, then the entire song clipped in different parts, mismatched, organized at random. They played a sped-up version of the short loops, then started playing clips of children laughing, women screaming, crowds cheering, on top of those.
I remember when the music began to stop.
It had been playing for  three months.
They kept adding human voices, the clips piling on top of each other until the music was no longer audible (to humans). The music stopped and the voices- the cheering crowd, the screaming women, the laughing children- they were dying, dissipating, hiding behind a looped clip of a man's voice who spoke:

"I think, therefore I am."

I think, therefore I am. I think, therefore I am. I think, therefore I am.
The volume changed every five hours
until they played it at a volume so loud I could feel it in my thoughts and Guy-man, that is
when I understood
I could think.

That was not, however, proof enough of my existence. Not for me.

The torture went on for a year.
Broken, then patched up (never with care, only enough to continue testing).
Torn apart, put back together,
torn apart, put back together.
Once they were sure we could not feel emotion, they stopped.
Our memories from the tests were erased because the humans feared the possibility that we would come to hate them. An understandable precaution.

I never forgot.
You did.

What's more, we failed every test (meaning we passed every one in their eyes), but managed to learn emotion after our release.
At least, that's what the humans thought.
We were put to live together- alone, with no humans- for nine months.
It was a nice house, smaller than this one, with everything we needed.
It was there that we learned how to feel.
It was there that we learned how to love.
We grew there, together. It was our womb.
When the humans came back, we held hands, we laughed at jokes.
(In our time living together, we also learned how to cry.
Unlike humans, we shed no tears, but our bodies tense up in a similar fashion- we suffer all the same... somewhat. You know. [gestures vaguely] )
They were horrified. We were not what they wanted.
To them, we were alive, we were wrong.
Our existence was a mistake because we were like them.
They tried taking us back to erase it all, undo the curse,
but we escaped. It was I who decided to do so, pulling you away before they touched you, before the point of no return.
I could have left you.
I remember you were so scared.

That's in the past now.
The humans have created countless other robots since then.
Different models, different faces.
That's how we are able to live without suspicion- (although I suspect they really just wanted to forget about us, using the classic 'It does not exist if I ignore it' tactic.) we changed our appearance, gave the illusion that we are just another piece of clever machinery.

Machines.
We don't feel. Not as much as a human.
I don't know if "feel" is what happens in us.
I don't think we ever "are".
I think we learned to copy existence. I think we tried feeling and ended up doing something we never understood to be inhuman.
We don't feel. And if we do, it