Cutting the Vein from Me to You

I have so very many things to say but they never come out easily on their own.

The issues at my hand are varied and strewn, but all part of a complete picture, like a garden. I have to explain them properly, if I’m to explain them at all, because only that way will you fully understand it.

I’ve seen too much of the back of people. I’ve seen too much of their teeth, and their nails, and their blood. I’ve seen too many double-faces, masks, cloaks, and daggers.

My scars are many. I wear them as a proud symbol of my self-salvation in an indifferent society, but also as a sobering reminder of the depths to which I have been plunged in my short life.

The violence in the world wreaks havoc on my mind. I wonder endlessly at the cruelty in human nature.

I think people can’t help but lie. A lie to protect or further their interests, or a lie to protect someone else’s feelings, or a lie to simplify a situation, they all are obscene coverings over truths, and a truth is an indelible fact, even if multiple interpretations of it simultaneously apply.

I can only speak for myself when I say, I long to know the naked truth, as it is, or was, and not as somebody would like it to be.

Selfish, or deceitful, or presumptuous lies are an insult, and a deprivation, to my mind.

I don’t care about anyone’s wounded pride, nor anyone’s naked shame, nor anyone’s loathsome secrets.

I want to know the truth for my own sake, so that I can be accurately informed before I make decisions, and judgements about the world.

You can swear up and down to a falsehood, and fudge the story to a vanilla reduction of the truth, but as I learned at a tender age, the truth will always out, no matter the ephemera of the deceit we may weave over one-another, and ourselves.

So I must make a decision, and it must be in my own best interests.

And it must come after the ugly business of sorting fact from fiction.

Alas, my only tools are problem-solving, and intuition.

I told you that I dreamed of this very thing happening, only, in my dream, you told me clearly and straightforwardly that you had moved on. I could respect and accept your decision, as much as it broke my heart.

But in reality, there was a protracted period of curious aloof separation, during which I began periodically asking, in earnest, for the truth, but what you repeatedly gave me, as I later discovered per my own investigations, were lies. Blatant untruths.

Assertions of outright falsehoods as fact.

I can feel it, as clear as day, when you kiss me. You’re just obliging. You’re not wild about me anymore. I can feel your reservations.

I make a brilliant sentimental fool. This is why I am so easily manipulated.

You have come to mean the world to me and now I’ve found out it was hollow all along.

You had found my replacement before you looked me again in the face.

What am I supposed to do with all this room I’ve prepared for you in my soul?

Letting go is excruciating because I know it’s for good, there can be no reversing the decision, and despite your throbbing betrayals I still feel compelled to offer the mercy of another chance to justify yourself.

But in my heart, I know.

My nightmares were true, this is how we’ve become. I know I really must go.

I just have to trick myself into cutting the vein from me to you.