sick

and if i feel as though i'm slipping through fences, all of them whitewashed and none of them real, you won't help me, will you. set them up over and over, agility trials, whippet thin and sad. can't be cool anymore. can't. just can't. you ruin things. you ruin good things. lovely, perfect things. turning tables, gathering friends, father's anger, mother's absence. feel better on the other side of what's good for us? we haven't changed places, you know. i'm still here and telling you straight this is queer.

and if i put you in that place and tie my colors on your arm, over the dozens of other colors you nobly wear, you won't be able to bend your arm anymore, will you. so, give me back that scrap. i understand what it does to you now. never knew i'd be wanting a knight, white charger, white powder, white bullshit. you show me what a man is and i'm sorry now. i'm sorry. so sorry. i don't want to know anymore. don't show me anymore.

and if i try to speak the truth, it won't be heard, will it. nothing makes me glad like the truth. the truth when you speak it. when i do it, though, and you can't even see, smoke and mirrors, saved pride, saved face, saved pennies, it's guaranteed to make me sad. mismatch. misspoke. mistake. bad, bad mistake.

and if i spend time in the stacks, reading to know i am not alone, reading to forget myself, to forget who we are, well, that won't help me, will it. knowing is a weariness that settles down into my bones. everyone i've ever forgotten and tried to leave, tried to unknow, unlove, unwant, unseek, is with me still. the pain of every single time strings together like a necklace of stones i didn't buy. take back the gift. take it back. you shouldn't have. you really shouldn't have.