this is the point i write a hook loud enough for you to hear it. i craft the words out of cells and marrow and spill them on the page in the right numerical order; hit just the right notes in time to bleed me dry. i write the truth in the harsh light under the kitchen sink right before i throw it down the garbage disposal where it belongs. i can't turn from the mirror on this white sheet of paper, and i can't shatter the reflection spewing from the ink of my pen. i can close my eyes and scream and cower in the corner and over the shrillness of my voice and under the shadow of my blindness, i will still be confronted with the truth of myself. i cannot run from my demons when they are what i am.
the truth is i will bring you the highest of your highs and the lowest of your lows. i will catapult you through the atmosphere and then be the anchor that drops your heart through the wood-plank-floor. i am a bottle marked antidote filled to the brim with the latest poison. i have the cure on my lips and death on my tongue, and i couldn't stop the interaction if i tried. i'm a calamity that is always ten seconds from falling apart. i am howling for help in the same breath that i am pleading with you to run for cover. i don't have a mindset for destruction, but the way i'm always eroding, i can't help the fatalities that follow me around like an echo.
if i twist my words in the right light, i can almost make it sound romantic. i can talk about my tornado-moods in a way that will make you want to crash into oz. i'll sing of my apocalypse heart in a way that will make you cross your fingers and wish for the end of the world on every 11:11. oh, but i won't be able to break the illusion and i won't be able to push you away, and i won't be able to tell you i love you in the only way that really matters: by letting you go. instead, i am selfish and i am pulling you deeper into the undertow just because i like the feel of your warmth. instead, i am selfish and i am feeding you sips of cyanide every time my molecules begin breaking down.
if i was good, i would push you away. if i was good, i would run and never look back. i would give you a breath of clean air and a quiet meadow and kiss your cheek and wish you luck. i would hope nothing but sweet summer nights for you and tranquil winter mornings. oh, but instead, i am hoarding you close. instead i am letting you build shacks in the middle of my emotional turmoil, and gnashing them with my beggar's teeth. i am selfish and wrong. i am a cancerous body exploding out of control. i can't stand the thought of taking death from you, and i can't stand the thought of another cotton-dress-smile giving you life, and i'm caught in the crossfire of my wants riddled with bullet holes. i'm tired and i'm mourning and i'm selfish and i'm hating myself --
and, worst of all, i am in love.
i kill what i love, and i am in love.