The Universe.
I'm done with this.
You hear me?
I am done.
No more false hopes, no more next times, no more prayers to the universe that will only go unanswered. I am not going to beg, or plead, or get on my knees when I know that there is no one listening and nothing to be given.
I can't do it anymore. I won't do it anymore because my knees are already wine-stained and weeping and my eyes have been trained to be more comfortable closed than open. I refuse to continue like this. Even if I am crawling and squinting my eyes against the light, I refuse to stay here any longer.
I will become something bigger and better than this whole place. I will be so much more than the goodness that I was forced to earn through a worship that preached of selfless love but only offered it conditionally. I'll create something that I can look at proudly instead of blinding myself from it for the sake of faith.
…
Are you listening to me? Or are you shutting your ears and closing your eyes so you can plead innocence like always?
…
I hate myself for it, but some sick, twisted part of me can't help but hope that you'll miss me. That the loss of my presence will rip some hole in you wide enough to require stitches. That it will leave you dizzy from all the blood that leaks from it.
At least then I'll have meant something. Maybe you'll even be forced to admit that I was worth something to you.
It's childish, I know. You always tell me that I act like someone half my age, with all my questions, and backtalk, and each every other part of me that you deem unworthy of respect. Hell, I could fuck the minister and you'd say it came from a place of immaturity.
Funny then, that I'm the one doing the thing that you never did, with all you're "elderly esteem".
I'm leaving this nest. I'm going to fly so far that no one could even think to have a connection to me, or you, or anyone else in this foresaken place.
...
I'd say don't come looking for me, but you'd need your eyes for that. And I think we've already established that they're glued shut.
