and the only feeling everywhere inside and outside and everywhere just everywhere is rawness and coldness and loneliness and despair cut through and I scream I scream and I scream and I scream and it hurts so much and they don’t deserve this don’t deserve your thoughts what would they say why would you listen to their voices when you could never dedicate to mine they don’t deserve it they’re not in it for you  it’s not for you And I scream In Silence I scream and I scream and it all just hurts so much

‘The glorious mess’ she said.
He crouched.
She listened.
He was quiet.
I’m sorry I can’t just vanish like you did.
He smiled.
She cried.
The Mockingbird screeched.
The rain poured.
You gave me Paris.
Yes, but I took New York.
She agreed.
He didn’t have to insist.
Of all the women in the world why do you have to love 12 year olds?
For the same reasons you love me.
I never said I did.
Her eyes lied.
He knew.
There is no reality here.
There was no destiny to begin with.
She felt defenseless.
He felt empowered.
Why do you hate me so?
You love my wrong personalities. You love the real ones.
She took a step back.
He coldly held her gaze.
I will never not remember her voice sounded
I will always forget he echoed.
Her vision got blurry.
He walked away.
‘The glorious mess’, leaving, never gone.

So many ideas floating in and out of me in a heartbeats moment. They involve business space next to Vuong, however sometimes I see myself sitting in a store in Paris too. A tremendously huge billboard on Sunset, spraypaint on Sohos Streets, old men with record players playing a french chanson that I will have specifically written for you. It will be called ‘Tu es celui qui me manque’ and it will be pretty. People from London to Colorado to South Africa to Niagara Falls should be singing the song silently to themselves when you pass them. I want Photobooth confessions, old school posters wherever you are, me hiding behind a mask, me hiding behind a ghost, just me, and just you. 

But then I remember how it’s never just you and me, and I simply feel stupid again.

” I was trying not to be so goddamn confused anymore. And miserable. I wanted to stop being miserable all the time. I just decided it one day after this book fell into my lap when I skimmed the shelves in the thrift store. How to stop being miserable all the time, the title frivolously called. When I bought it I was a little less confused, a little less miserable. I even caught myself drawing the Eiffel Tower on my hand with a sharpie. It didn’t look like the Eiffel Tower of course, since I’m a ridiculously lousy painter. But that bold black blotch on my skin made me reel in time. The skin underneath was a little drier than the rest and it became my safe spot when I needed to know that I was still alive. I think that, you know, it was progression up until that point when I started listening to this piano suite that was playing in and outside of my head most of the time. It made me think of the History of Sadness. And it made me miserable again. You wouldn’t know this, but I had forgotten your voice by then. You moved away so slowly, like deep raw cuts with every little step and when I saw you disappear with that woman I thought that this was it. I rearranged. God, I was such a Fool to believe everything would work out for me, for you. I vandalized the Town with your picture but then you went on vandalizing it with your Nothingness. And I felt so goddamn lost, so goddamn stupid for twisting and turning the world for you when all you did was walk past me with such beautifully brutish ignorance. But me, the Fool rearranged and I started making up stories of how I’m alright with all of this. I wrote letters to people I didn’t care about. Communicated with others who also didn’t mean anything to me other than a process of speeding up time. Less time without you. I kept myself busy with nonsense. So much foolishly nonsense and when I stopped, and when I was alone and when nobody would see me, I still thought about you. I was invisibly miserable and it made me feel a little more indestructible. Nobody knew my weakness, nobody knew all these accidents that happened to me over the year, this painful series of encounters that always consisted of you and of me but hardly of unionism were still all my heart would allow me to feel. Even today,when I looked in the mirror and saw my eyes I tried to pinch them until the white would turn red and my physical pain would overshadow everything else. Why do I do this to my eyes? Specifically? Because you once said that you thought they were beautiful. Because all I can do is hate them now. Impertinence I call, for your voice is already gone missing deep inside of me. And I can’t bring it back up. I can’t bring it back. The mirror loses its acuity after that and again, I’m a little less miserable. Sometimes I wonder if I have ever told you the most ordinary thing that, however in some childish way, feels like the most extraordinary to me. You feel well acquainted. You know. I see your face and I feel like I see you everyday, I talk to you everyday. And I feel we’re close, not necessarily sexually close, but close. I know every little flaw, every little insecurity and I still want to be with you, always. I know what your lips look like when you say “as well”. Know how that one hair on your chin differs from the rest. Know how it feels like when you lean in a little closer to make sure I feel safe. I know we understand each other without the need to speak. I know all that, but then the picture changes and I see your immensely huge wall of making believe and I push you away again. I feel miserable. Did I tell you I feel miserable? It’s a Death Token to be here instead of there, really. But then you came back, rolling in with harpoons and shields. You came back to me without knowing. I was confused, oh was I confused but it felt so hopeful. I remembered how I once muttered a goodbye, insincerely, into trees and mud and sand and darkness. And the echo never reached me. And when I went out that day I thought about that. I was on edge, goddamn miserable fool I was. You were gone as fast as you warmed up that decaying lifeless thing inside. The Rogue you are. And when I looked down I saw that the rain had washed away the black spot on my hand. Gone as well. All gone. Right now, you see. I don’t really understand how everybody is moving while I’m still stuck in these moments. ‘Am I just an incapable Mess for not moving on or do others just don’t have the fidelity, the honesty to ever feel like that, I kept hearing.’ And I thought it was true. And I was so goddamn confused. I still waited for you. And when I went someplace I still hoped to see you. And I’m angry at people for not knowing, for walking around with silly happiness radiating from their faces. I’m angry, so goddamn angry. How can anything, anyone move on when clearly I get thrown back in time whenever I stop and think about you? Did I ever tell you this I ask myself. Would I ever tell you this? Hey, you. I’m miserable. And I’m confused. Goddamn Fool I am.” 

Like a kid, hearts in laughter you’ll spin around, arms stretched afar, moving everything and everyone in reach.
You’ll make it crash, you’ll make them hurt.
You’ll break all you can, in a childs’ naivety and ignorance you crush me over and over. Bloodshed. So much Bloodshed.

And the Heart is weak, it’s numb with possibility.
‘Never fall in love with Potential’ I whisper, again and again. But potential, dead potential is all I can feel.

Oh, you pig.

Oh, I’m the pig?!