-painful means to a happy ending-

you ought to know– you’re not the only one born left of center.

don’t pretend that i wasn’t in the wringer with you when your world got twisted. i was there, baby. i watched it happen.

so you think you’re worthless?

you know i think the world of you.

imperfect as you are, mad, dazed, half-awake, half-elsewhere, always lost. and i still think the world of you.

so you’re a liar– and you deserve nothing but pain? well you’re not the only one.

i was there to hold you still, to keep you steady. i was there with you– seeking redemption by gently soothing the bruises of your furious crimes.

you know what it’s like to feel worthless– to be an eyesore, to be an angry stain tainting the walls of someone’s precious ivory tower, to be a bloody hole in someone’s holy robes.

you can’t help it. neither can i.

we un-make beds. we wake people when they’re dreaming good dreams.

we are who we are. and it’s ok.

because baby, what i am, what i do– i can’t help it either. i still think the world of you.

i bask in the glory of your darkness when the sun glares at you like a disappointed mother.

you’re a bottomless well and i want to climb down into you, shiver with you in the cold, cry saltwater down your neck until i find myself floating in the depths of your arms.

don’t you understand? if it was to be so bad that you’d love not having to love me– the least you can do is not stay mad, baby. don’t stay mad at me.

it’ll be ok. you’ll see.

you love to be lost like you love the thought of loving her– because it’s as safe as watching the sun set in a horizon that will always run away from you.

you pine for her because she’s not here. you close your eyes in made-up memory of short happy days that you don’t really remember– except when you want to– because it’s easier that way. but that’s ok. you’re in love. it doesn’t matter what it is– you’re in love. well, so am i.

so am i.

i wanted to tell you– that you’re really just like everyone else.

you only want what you can’t have– no matter how bad it gets.

baby, you’re really just like everyone else.

you only want what you can’t have.

i like lighting candles until the wicker sears through the floorboards.

would you rather that i pretend to down this drink calmly? pretend to take my time? playing it cool is like praying 300 hail mary’s instead of 3.

i’ll play it cool and let you come to me. but you never will. we’ll pretend to kiss, let it all go like you would an urge to piss. there’s nothing to miss but the odd little rhymes that keep going until it’s 6am and we all need a little sleep.

when i said it– you heard me right. anything worth doing is worth doing until the universe crashes down like cheap chandeliers.

is there a god? am i listening to too much of your soundtrack’s pop sensibility? was it iron & wine, lucinda williams or kinnie starr singing it’s alright? well it’s not. it’s not alright.

connie francis lets it out– everybody’s somebody’s fool. and i’m yours, baby. i’m your fool, your designated bellhop serving in your imaginary hotels of hell, your whipping boy, pleasuring you with soothing tones of touch, with a wordless tongue, with lips that don’t hiss when i kiss your demon skin.

anything worth doing is worth doing until the hand of god leaves its mess on your junkyard city.

mr. buddha, there is no middle way– you fly or you fall– whichever way you end up– don’t stop and think.

just plunge in headfirst with the bloody passion of a burning spear and pray it doesn’t sting.

so come with me. let’s do something.

It does happen.

Episodes in a TV Series espousing intelligently crafted notions of lesbian love and lust– where everything doles out chaos at every turn and all modern concepts of Love are shoved down the chute like a bag of muck. She watches them. She admires their every thought– their every motivation, how they make decisions, how lust makes you alive, how feelings can be shattered at any moment– how truly impermanent things are– how lost we all are to the point of ruin. She loves that. The freedom to be lost.

Love. My god. The idiot who thought the word up should be shot! How it all falls into place so fluidly is a testament to how seriously screwed up the world really is. How does one stay sane in the grip of these dreary states of fucking mind? How can you stand back and not dive in headfirst and hope you regain consciousness soon enough to come up for air?

Yes, i walked that ocean full of hope– riding passion like a mad shark hungry for anything and everything. I got lost in the middle of it– completely– without the skill to read currents for self-preservation or the benefit of predatorial ruthlessness made to defend the rawness of what’s left of the heart i thought i once had.

This is the real world. There are no candy-coated love boats floating on a river of wine and chocolates. You can either be a saint who gets crucified or a demon laughing his ass off watching the saints getting nailed.

I’ve been the former. And the demons have laughed their asses off at me– and their heckling sounded more melodic than angels singing those depressing psalms.

I’ve had my heart broken, giving out blood like some impassioned hemophiliac to whomever wanted to drain the life out of me. Suffice it to say that i gave plenty.

And no, i have no illusions of myself being the only one getting screwed. I have broken hearts myself by lashing out at the world without thought or a single pinprick of remorse. The world deserved it. But not emoon. Not maude. Not aia. Collateral damage in my hatred for how the world nailed me down– unjustified, immoral, emotionally diseased, evil and without regret.

I resurrect today, ready to begin again, demonized. Not so much alive as undead.

I will cross those lines again and ride the wave straight to the rocks and into the fucking lighthouse just to prove a point.

I hate because you said I should. I have to feel nothing because I gave it all i got and felt every single point of pain that at one point, i thought about why bliss needed to be this excruciating. I seek and destroy on command because the rules dictate that this is how the game is played– nothing else matters but the survival of the fittest.

This is my testament, my manifesto to the fucked up world we all live our shitty lives in.

After 6pm, July 11, 2005– this shipwreck is going to burn as many souls as possible.

And when it all comes to ruin– i’ll be there, laughing myself to tears.

One fistful of Roche, a bottle of tequila to cap it all off– and i’ll die smiling. Soon, when the forest of this unbearable hatred bears fruit– you’ll feel it too the way i feel it now.

And if i’m wrong– it’s not like anybody gives a flying fuck.

I think that’s hilarious. Perfectly comedic. Demonic. Sweet. Just like the shadows of all your twisted, lustful lies.

I shall empty my guts of your putrid memories until there is nothing left.

In the end, in all the glorious fucked up states the human brain can come up with– it’ll all come burning down with the heat of your pornographic epic.

Reap what you sow, bitch. I’m sure you’ll love it.