You know that feeling when you’ve been graced with something you feel is beyond you? Something so much better than, so superior, that you feel like touching it with your filthy hands would be the Christian equivalent of pissing on Jesus’s face as he lay pinned to the cross? There are very few things that can elicit that kind of emotion from me. It’s difficult for me to feel a happiness of any sort, and even just getting a tinge of appreciation is rare and fleeting.
When I say I love, in reality I have little idea of what that means. Do I need? Is that what it is? Am I equating love with something it isn’t? Honestly I believe very few even have a vague understanding of what it is. It is thrown about as thoughtlessly as a hug (which I also believe should be reserved for only very select people). If it is as strong as hate, then it would be safe to say I feel very little of it as compared to what I should emotionally be capable. Hate is bottomless; it’s a black pit there to swallow you up and in some ways, free you. Like many things, it has many facets and each has its own particular bitterness.
If I could love like I hate, that would be such a frightening thing. I feel cheated in some senses, but I also know that the lust for vengeance in my heart is too great to allow room for much else. With even this wilted, half-baked feeling of whatever love is, it has driven me to terrible things. The scars on my body and on my mind will not ever be shed. The feeling of that particular love is long lost, but the fathomless pool of hate was quick to quench itself on my misery. And here again, the love has skittered back, a weak, grotesque reflection of my inner self. I fear it more than anything, and I hate it. The strangest thing is that I thought I wanted it, but I find myself lost in the days when I had nothing but a deathwish and enough emotional pain and loneliness to nearly kill me. I miss wanting to die, because now I have no idea how to live.
The urge toward self-destruction has not left, not entirely. But I truly understand its nature now, as I am at arm’s length with it. I see what I was incapable of seeing before, I see what its intent had been. I see why I was crushed for so long by my own pointlessness and sadness.
I was right before! I am nothing like you, and my darkness is and will always be my saving grace. You know nothing. You lied to me. Your weakness lies in searching for a light that is nothing but an illusion, a tattered blanket for the world to cling to helplessly. I am beyond you and what you’ve done. My greatest mistake was thinking that I should repress this, stop this. It is the most beautiful gift I could have ever been given, and I am proud to bear the scars of its beatings. I am the master of it now, and there you lie cowering and whimpering, nothing but a product of the society you scoff at but want nothing more than to be a part of. Hypocrisy my friend, is not becoming.
I’ll make sure if we ever fuck I’ll call you by the wrong name. Repeatedly.