executioner1983
death is sustainable
- Oct 2, 2023
- 84
You are them in alternate form. You are filled with money and work and nothing else. I read to you in the park and though you do not ask me to stop, you want me to. I can tell. I can read you better than any of my books. This is because you are easy. Simple. We are not here to be easy or simple, we are here to confuse and be confused. You do not understand this. You are vulgar and empty. You turn me into mush. Speak to me with words. I will not understand you any other way. My speech is as much a part of my body as my legs and arms are. You do not understand this. You have nothing to say to me, but you like the way I look and you like the way I move. This I can understand, because I feel the same about you. You are like a dog to me. I hold you and let you rest in my lap but you know nothing and I know that you know nothing. You tell me you haven't cried in years and I feel sick. I feel sick because I want to make you cry. And I feel sick because I like the tension more than actually having you. I remember before, you in my room, so heavy, so sad, so intriguing. Why do I like you better in pain than in good spirits? I say I know why but I am a dealer in distortions. You cannot trust anything I say. But if you were to, It is because you seem real, alive, actually human to me. You have been happy for so long I think you are forgetting how to feel it. And the childishness of it all. I am not your mother, I am not your caretaker. You know this, you say it before I do but your body moves without your brain. Years ago I could have admired this but today I do not. I cannot admire you anymore than you can me. You touch and prod and laugh and speak vulgarly while I squirm and hold my breath. You believe we are on the same page but I have already closed the book.
