There is something about the hurt that calls to me. I can’t help but wonder why, but its true. The broken feel so easy to understand. Their lives are dramatic and quiet, they see things in shades of grey. Its so easy to be someone’s color. Am I like this because I really care? Does this make me a good person? Or am I just as hurt as they are, and it is my own insecurities that make me feel this way? So easy to be beautiful when your backdrop is dark and chilling fear. So easy to glow in the darkness.
Sometimes I feel like I am wishing to be a mess. A unfulfilled complex of victimization burns in me. A specter that never really leaves my side. I used to dream, I used to wish for it. Maybe then someone would notice, maybe then someone would care.
Most days that all seems crazy, most days I cant help but think I have been the greatest fool. Bad news for people who like bad news; two o’clock and all’s well. The good times are killing me.
Some times it strikes me, a specters shadow and I just want to be hurt. I call for it, I see it, I feel it as the hot copper zeros in on insignificant gray matter. Sniper’s sweet goodnight. My mind goes blank and I imagine someone just pulled the plug: LOADING, please wait…
I draw a breath and then another, and its all back as it was, naked and unequipped. Empty, wondering where my stuff went off to. It’s a gesture of a reboot, but rarely does it quiet that voice in my darker soul. The one that can’t let get go, the one that feeds on the sorrow.
What is my background then? I wish I knew anymore. I used to have so much to say, I used to have so much to feel. Have I gone past that place or has it passed me? I don’t know where the ladder is or why we want to the top, but I still can’t help but wonder if I fell off.