Me Myself & Regret

the eyes of older gods

On nights like tonight, I find myself wandering somewhere between complacency and cowardice.

Trying to skirt the line between what it means to fall into form, and what it means to break free.

But free from what?

The only thing preventing me from floating away is a small anchor surgically inserted into every person I love.

An anchor that grows as a direct result of how much "happiness" I give them, as someone like  ̶T̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶r̶u̶c̶i̶f̶i̶e̶d̶ ̶g̶i̶r̶l̶ would put it.

With each day comes an increased connection that will evolve into increased emotional damage depending on who finds out what and when.

And yet I stray...

I stray further and further into the darkness that some see as light, with my hands clasped together.

My fingers go to war with one another, using the sharp edges of nails to claw away at others who look just like them on the opposite side.

A whole other world, though not all dissimilar to the one they've spent 14 years familiarizing themselves with.

That's the overly intellectual, and artistic way of saying that I begin to pick at my nails.

I lose track of how hard I must be doing it and manage to cut myself.

Blood flows out.

Not a lot of blood. But enough to remind me of the color of  ̶H̶o̶p̶e̶'s eyes.

But she has more. And hers is a lighter shade of red.

̶I̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶t̶i̶n̶u̶e̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶r̶i̶p̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶k̶i̶n̶ ̶o̶f̶f̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶b̶o̶d̶y̶

Just like [REDACTED]

I make my way into the cathedral the crucified girl cares for so dearly and attempt to shake off any uneasiness that may have snuck into my mind on the journey over.

The walk isn't as bad as the one I so commonly take to the second half of town.

In fact, coming here allows me to pass through several locations that make the cold seem not that cold at all.

Some nights, when the temperature is low enough, I like to watch the exhaust fumes from the pipes of closing restaurants clash with the winter wind and explode into gray vapor.

I like to walk through it, half expecting to feel something, but remembering as I pass through that I too, am vaporous.

And the reason I can not feel, is not that there are no feelings to be felt, but that I have already felt them at all.

There is nothing left for me here.

Blessed be those who give up their eyes.

Who trade in their sight for the sake of a prize.

Blessed be those who reach out their hands.

Who sit in the church, so outside she can stand.

Good afternoon there.

Today I am barred from having fun.

And so I shall sit here, thinking nothing, seeing nothing, being nothing.

All so she can feel what it means to be alive once more, if even for a fraction of a second.

...

Do you wish to learn more about she who sleeps?

I doubt this aspect would convert you to a believer either way.

It is simply how we show our thanks.

For now.