Pusaq: I am Bleeding

There is little to call my own. No love, warm-hearted courtiers, rivers of friendship run dry. And where am I in all of it? A void of little. Superficial nothingness. This maelstrom of absent light within me sucks others dry, cannot force myself to be happy. 

The things I cherish are ripped from me, I cannot privately hold anything dear. What I like, becomes shared, redistributed, given away; it is no longer mine. It never was, really. What more can I give if it is all taken? I fear I’ve run dry. Maybe that’s why I am like this. Maybe that is why I am unfulfilled. No wine left to spill, river run dry, there are no mourners lined to partake their cups from me. 

A moment in my life where I was left for not being what another needed(positive, radiant, delicate). Could my sensitive heart take that again? No. Skin tissue is more than sadness, more than it all. More than nothing. To loose your nothing is to court death. That city underneath the city, beating thrum of nightlife; sweat, sweat upon an upper brow of which I could find rhythm. That too is taken of me. That underneath city, desperate in nature, breathing on the cusp of forgetting is the place often filled with those who are tainted to remember. Trying to loose yourself within different scenes and different actors is not unlike hanging upon a meat hook, skin flayed, eternal wound choosing to bleed. You used to die for each other. Now you hide under pseudo-fetishistic rituals of dress to blind the eyes of the past in hopes of creating new innocence. The world is not kind enough to grant us that. Drink because you despise the world, not because you are part of it. Heroic death… I would live a thousand years if it meant dissipating into a miasma of lust. Complaints of being lonely while rejecting the whole world, I am breaking mirrors at home to avoid myself. You understand. Murder in the streets is different from murder in the Cathedral. The underground city is dying.

Everyone is asexual. Cheap pantomime of desire when you pretend to like sex. Endless humiliation. I don’t believe you are Lovers. I feel I am still capable of love, I want to feel desired and loved and have a happy life, even if my youth ends. I cannot stand it anymore. There is no love here I cannot stand you, any of you, all of you; go away, go away, go away…