• I am not living in the past, the past is living in me.

    The deafening silence you leave me with forces forward thinking to the wayside,
    and it lingers till it's a festering ball of knotted good intentions and the only way to untangle the mess is to constantly backtrack, it feels like I'm playing Russian roulette alone with the chamber full of melancholy and distilled love, if only for the chance of progressing forward again but it's never long till the viscous cycle restarts and I find myself reloading the revolver and praying that it's the last time. Quietly screaming, and wishing I could hate you and blame you for these nights, I find myself finding new revelations and but my biggest fear, admittedly, must be if not you, then who?

    I made the mistakes of a boy then, I beat that boy like an ill tempered father, and with each blood curdling belt of air that filled the space between right and wrong more of that boy died. His vision so badly damaged by the severity of the beatings, he found it hard to distinguish the scale of morality and drifted in the grays and disconnected morality till he felt comfortable. As the boy's sight began to return he gazed upon his reflection and rejected it, the aperture of the eye held but a millisecond of the terror, enough for the simple clarity that the boy was no longer present, what remained was yet undefined and frightening. Madness. Broken. Unrelenting. This was the fall of the boy, his true death. Discarded, unwillingly thrown to cast his ink blot of frailty on the rocks of Damascus.