Shadows of the Trees

I feel like writing about something that would make you want to roll around in your own puke. I feel like writing something about my darkest moments that would bring you to your knees. I feel like writing about the secrets behind me that as time goes on don't feel like secrets anymore, they just feel like stories. I feel like writing something that is beautiful, but will hurt. I feel like writing all these things but I just cant start, and this is all I've got.

I should write about the way the shadows of the trees are groping my thighs
and how I kind of like it
or about how when I stare into the sun
I pray I'll go blind
so I'll never have to see your face again
or about how sometimes
the most comfortable thing I can think of
is cold wet soiled packed against my corpse

I could write about what I think about you, but it wouldn't even hint at what you've done. I forgive you and I am sorry for the life you have lived. Don't play stupid, we both know that we both know. Words don't count at this point.

Now I feel like writing about love, but it just seems so out of place, but maybe thats exactly what this is all about. Misplaced love. But its not love, perhaps lust or attraction, desire maybe. Or maybe you're just a sick fuck playing a game. Well, now I'm a sick fuck too, roll the dice. Try it again. I dare ya.

People are afraid of whats happened to you. People can't deal with it, even as just an idea. It makes them so sick to their stomach that they can't even bear to think about it. What do you think it has done to me? This disease you've given me is on fire and lives underneath my skin everyday. I named it memory.

I'm living in this GOD DAMNED body that has been watched and touched and fucked, and what are you going to do about it, huh? Comment this note, say its moving, or deep. Do you really love my writing? Thats just dandy. Thats why I wrote it. So that you could love it.