You somehow give me this amazing inspiration;
you inspire me to write,
you inspire me to hate.
You inspire my pain and suffering.
You silently sit in your sideline spot in my life,
from there you mold my anguish, my torment.
your typical absence is never enough to numb my wounds,
but only for lack of effort.
the pain I feel is not unlike my love.
The soothingly caustic, beautifully hideous feeling deep inside me
that burns and blazes, combusting within my body.
You are the core, the essence of that passion.
You are the one
the only
who has seen me, felt me, known me from the inside,
yet not in the sense of our love making
that was too much like getting mindlessly, heartlessly fucked,
but in the sense that you tore out my insides,
my beating heart, my liquid soul, my numbing mind,
you hung my heart from your mailbox, for all the world to not notice,
with my soul dripping from it
and my mind drowning in the forming puddle of smut.
Can you hear my insides scream?
Hearing was never a quality you encompassed.
The language of emotion is but murmurs of gibberish, unbeknownst to you,
while it is my native tongue.
You and I were never destined to be us,
but doomed by our own forces.
I fed on your love for infliction and you devoured my need for pain.
Then reality crept up and devoured us both,
leaving you in it's warm belly while I dribbled down it's chin in a blob of black drool.
While my messily coiled mind and caustically boiling soul were overcome with the comprehension
this is the bulk debris of my life solidified on reality.