The Dread of Ye

Dirty mirror

I hate this feeling:
The dread—
This fucking dread—
Knowing the anguish to come
Now that this void I tried so hard to fill—
That was filled with your goddamn voice—
Is a void once more.
The ennui is so real,
And I abhor it so much,
I find myself raking at my skin
Just for a moment’s reprieve.
I’ve become a masochist,
Delighting in my own torture
As I stand in a room face-to-face
With the one face I never wanted to see again;
But my faith in myself is shaken—
Motherfucker, you moved me when no one else could—
And now I treat this void as a vat:
I pour anything and everything I can into it,
Even knowing most of it is poison,
And with each drop I become less myself
And more what I always saw in that filthy mirror.
I know they see it, too:
All those eyes on the street.
Their whispers somehow reach my ears,
As loud as jet engines that block out all else,
So I’m forced to stand trial,
Listening to all their ridicule;
And I, only ever asking how I fell this far,
While recognizing the one strand of hope in my life—
Yes, I’m talking about your goddamn voice again—
Is now broken, never to be repaired.

Raging Texan

hanging-swing

You are a raging alcoholic,
A bleeding masochist
Delighting in the debauchery
You wade in to ignite your self-loathing
And justify the stoicism that defines your life.
You are the type of person,
So entrenched in hopelessness
That you would excuse a domestic abuser,
Because co-dependence outweighs your well-being,
Despite your assertions to the contrary.
And I, fatigued by observation,
Resort to this libelous tirade
For no other reason than to obtain a mote of agency
Among the shipwreck caused by your storm;
And should this offer offense,
I hope you file suit
If only to come face-to-face with the realization
That your self-degradation is not internal,
That your immolation is a holocaust
Burning those around you.
You tried your damnedest
To send me spiraling,
But you didn’t even have to lift a finger;
Without effort, you conceive of machinations
So twisted and deranged no other could birth them,
And plummet me into ruin
In some sick imposition of penance.
You have accepted your birthright to catastrophe,
Wielding your inheritance as a shield
To protect yourself from those
Who would sever the binding on your wings
And see you take flight to the heavens above,
Proving yourself a god among the paltry.
You have withered,
Dragging those unfortunate enough
To be caught in your grasp with you
And suffocating them in the smoke,
Drowning them in the liquid,
Surrounding them with the profane and degenerate,
Until all these ugly truths
Morph into something else entirely
And you can vindicate your rage in ubiquity.

My Shallow Envy

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Is it okay if I kill myself now?
Because I’m never going to see anything as iridescent as your spirit,
Transcending every perception I had about beauty;
But you’re only drifting further from me,
And I’m too selfish and immature to admit
That you’re entering realms far beyond anything I can offer.
There’s no excuse for my prepubescent connotations
And misguided fantasies,
Yet there is neither an escape from this expectation or my acrimony,
Or even my shallow envy
That you have attained what I could never even conceive.
I don’t expect you to understand;
I don’t expect you to sympathize.
I don’t expect anything.
I just want it to end.

Within the Shadow

Shadow of the Colossus artwork

Another one down;
Another one to surmount the guilt.
In this field of giants, what am I but a speck?
I am a plague, a darkness upon this forbidden land,
Rife with abominations,
But when the corpses mount the pile,
I am a titan among insects.

Hear me! father of the land:
I never wished for this fate.
With each transgression committed
I see myself more and more a beast,
An occupant of the greatest evil;
But if you come for me, beware:
I am the slayer of monoliths.

Is this a boast?
No!
With each stab I feel my heart flutter,
Panged as though I were piercing myself.
These ululations of lament transmute,
Become tirades of anger and self-deprecation,
And though salvation may be won in the end,
Forgiveness is far beyond me.

In this silent prison—
This empty haven—
The beauty brings me to my knees,
Prayerful before the cursed altars,
Trembling for fear of the unknown:
The next monumental conflict—
An epic struggle.

There is no one to share the pain,
No one to comprehend the strife within;
Just my soul and a spurned god
And a cadaver awaiting resurrection.
Alone I embark, alone I succeed,
Alone I witness the horrors wrought by my hand
And the tragedies left in their wake.

But of all the atrocities enacted,
Yours, my fathers, were the worst.
And so to cast blame,
Only gaze into these hallowed pools
And witness the ripples of reflection.
For as much as I abhor what I’ve done,
I would herald the death of a thousand guardians
To undo the blessing bestowed for your sacrifice,
And see this dead beauty walk again.

*Special thanks to Fumito Ueda and his masterpiece for the inspiration for this writing