All at once clarity and horror harmonised and I realised why I cannot drink, why I cannot fuck, why I cannot go out and stay there. It’s because I do not truly desire it, but I think I do because I see you doing the same thing and something inside me detonates. I hate you like a brother. I want to show you that I can do the same; but bigger and bolder and better and more sex and more drunk and more out. I desire it until I lose vision of myself completely, no longer an autonomous entity, but purely as a metric measured against you.
I cannot tell you but you look terrible. I declare it to myself instead, footnoting that it is because of me. You are fixated on the rings under your eyes but I hadn’t noticed them, I’d noticed your eyes first. They’re not there. Iced over, void and tired. I imagine all the fucking they’ve seen; first person shooter. Come for me. I imagine I am you, with someone bent over a bed. I imagine you asking me why I made you into a character. Why didn’t you make me into one? I’d reply.
I hate everyone as much as I love you. I hate myself the most. I think these things have to be true to love you. You invented new forms of torture, tailored especially to me, out of love. We're ill-fated, prone to destruction, Vanishing twin syndrome. Except instead of one twin absorbing the deceased other in the womb, it was actually that one twin existed before the other, and the second spawned from its ribs like Eve. I grew in your likeness. To hate myself is to love you, to love myself is to hate you.
2087
prguitarman
kianamaiart
