Muse,
I don't understand what, exactly, you see in me. You've said a lot of things - most of which I've brushed off - but none of them really exist.
WHY
do you keep calling me talented? I just don't understand you, or why you think that I'm anyone's definition of beautiful. And yes, I get pretty embarassed over these things, because wouldn't you if you were in my place? Who am I, to call you handsome? Intelligent? Strong? You would brush it off just the same, and you know it. It doesn't even matter that it's true.
With me, though, it's different. With me, it's always different - nothing you say is true, no one should love me as much as you claim to. No one, because I hurt everyone. I've hurt you before, and I can't promise that the knives will stay in their drawers. I don't want to hurt you, but I want to hurt me. I really, really do, sometimes - and I'm so so sorry. I'm trying to stop, I really am.
But none of it matters, if I'm making new scars.
Carrillo.
YOU ARE READING
muse
Non-FictionPre-love and post-trauma, a collection of letters dedicated to the one and only captain of this sheet metal ship, K.G. Non Fiction: #111 Short Story: #283 © Papyruspoet 2014.
