Quick get on with the separation already. Stop your preaching about men, or women, or financial issues, of what you are going to do/where you are going to go, without giving a flying fuck about the souls you brought into hell with you.

I feel like moving out.

Maybe just saying things would bring about some form of comfort? Even if it was not real. Myself misses myself being alone. Makes sense?

I am not proud of what I have. I dislike it when I feel just a little, used. Because I prefer to be the one using. Don't we all fancy the upper hand? Unashamedly I do.

Morning started out a little hectic. When I finally settled in for breakfast, I just blocked her out, the ramblings. Too much of a good thing is just... too much. I know where she is coming from, but just, not today or this week or the days to come. I'm not receptive.

I genuinely want to believe again. Foolish. Yes. But better than where I am or have been all this while. The truth is. It is harder, to not be. So at least when I do an actual free fall, I would feel the full extend of damage and destruction of the impending impact. Face to ground, flesh to tear, wounds to bleed, spilled to dry.

Akin to the life cycle of a butterfly. At least it would be worth while. Even if it was all so very fleeting. At least it flew, right?

I can't imagine hitting the restart button. I don't even feel like trying. Give it to me on a platter now and I find it repulsive.

I miss you love.

Begin the begin.

If I die give my body to the sun

Please don't cry

This fear of tears let me run

The echo sparsely tells me where to go

Yet I'm stuck between the rain and the snow

I didn't think dying would be so hard

I didn't think living would be so hard

Waking up in the turning tide

Was easier

Than living in your eyes

Bye love

And the paper let me use it's face

To tell you all of my disgrace

And I'm sorry if you didn't say goodbye

Yes, I'm sorry if I ever made you cry

But none of this time was wasted on you

I thought it was fun walking in these shoes

but the water was just too cold

and your words were just too bold

and the summer came at early spring

and my lines are out of breath

and it screams

as I lie here dying

you haven't lost a thing

Slowly eyes

Are letting go of pain

So if i die

Let my blood leave a stain.

What is wrong then? Taking pleasure in watching someone's agony and death on screen? We are repressed. Pent up. Explosive. Yet we do our best to detonate that outburst, unknowingly, everyday, in any and every possible outlet that we can find. Taking pleasure in distractions to ease the urges of destruction. We are just a knife away from deadly mistakes.

At the point of vulnerability, we scream and shout, kicking, internally, for sympathy, attention, an applaud, to be understood. Appreciated. Of our weakness bear forth in front of another human being. It is like a naked dance of weakness.

I should be paid to write poetry perhaps. Something that I can immerse myself in. Like a beautiful tragic role play, for once, in which I am not the main character; I enter a trance. I am you for that instant. As easy as slipping on a pair of shoes or sliding my hands into your coat, to feel and taste your warmth, and the raw intense emotions you were overwhelmed in yet unable to seal into words. You feel like the tragic hero in your story. And I... can simply close my eyes and let my fingers take over to string your story into beautiful words.

I posses you in that short... dulcet...trance. You are mine. Owned in that instant. It felt like a sweet intoxicated intercourse, without the actual physical body itself. What a magnificent art, while being worlds apart. So you wait in anticipation for my beautiful master piece to be presented to you, a transaction in which we walk away from, feeling so deeply satisfied.

Eccentric?

Yes I am, unashamedly enjoying every moment of it. It was not you that I was interested in. It is the art and power I get from your well of misery. I take pleasure in that, that's all.

Evidence?

In my archives.

"Could you help me write a poem? Regarding the situation of her and me now." He said.

"I charge per alphabet." I said.

"I'll pay." He replied.

"Like a breath of life, you breathed into me. Sweet endearing thing hanging by a string. I'm everything wrong and imperfect drawn by beauty and light. I took the step to fall again, I chose, not you. Not by your grace but by mine, in which you shall not want." I wrote.

The truth is, I find my freedom... in words.