Bad Art

I know I'm stupid but I'm waiting for you. I don't want the walls or the distance; the two feet you kept between us the whole time. I'm not sure what you are afraid I'm going to do to you but after this same thing happens over and over again with so many different people you kinda start feeling there's something wrong with you. I may have been frustrated and I may have been cruel but that doesn't stop what I feel about you.

Sometimes I am the perfect monster and all I want is blood and pain and weapons. Sometimes I am the perfect source of love in the center of a very bright world with skin like milk and breath like honey. Sometimes I am a terrible writer just trying to get a few ideas out before ennui takes me over again.

Yes it's love and I'm stupid to feel it. You don't want me and that's the way it is. I'm happier in my isolation anyways. Happy without human connection or the buzzing of a million brains around me filling up my skull with emotions that aren't my own. I have never felt someone's moods shift as fast as yours do. I've never felt someone more conflicted about me or felt the wash of disdain at my touch fill me up like poison on a beautiful sunny day.

Every moment I touched you and you didn't shy away felt small and precious. I wrote poems about it. I perpetuated all the bad art I could. But you don't know me. You've never even tried too. You've never tried to understand. Never even asked the story of where I came from. Never asked how I got like this. Never asked how I felt. You know only your own imaged fear at what you think I am. You only think of how I affect your life and not the other way around. I've been a whore to better men than you (and also worse). I know what they did to me when I was young. I know what hands shaped me. I remember those hills. I heard those ghosts. I know what I found in that ground. I know what I am afraid of. I know. I know what I am capable of.

I'm just waiting for the day when I don't have to feel this way.