Oh to know someone intimately.
How filthy it can feel.
You show me the most gruesome vile parts of the self and tenderly I cradle your heart in my hands as it beats. Your fear and blood runs down my arms, steadily dripping from my elbows as it pools on the hardwood floor, seeping between the floor boards and embedding our love into the foundations of my home. You apologize for the mess, as if knowing me intimately isn't dirty work itself... Offended? Is that the word?.. at how hypocritically you paint me in your mind, do you paint me as I stand before you in your mind's eye? Covered in the blood from your quivering, aching heart?
To anybody that will listen I shriek "I admit the deed! Tear up the planks! Here, here! It is the beating of his hideous heart!". As you yourself paint pictures of me in your mind, I must paint pictures of you, and us, in their minds. They must know that in that room you once said "be still my beating heart" as the blood pooled around my feet. They must know that I saw the putrid filth you hide from the world, that the smell of metallic love permeated my curtains and rotted my floor boards. They must know that I loved you, not despite the hideous visions you allowed me to see, but because of them.
My dear, to truly know someone is dirty, inconvenient work. I will live my life day by passing day inconvenienced and covered in your vulgarity, all for my greatest pleasure of knowing you intimately.
Paint me however you would like in your head, all I ask is that you paint me with your filth.
Oh to know someone intimately.
