Thursday, January 30, 2003


Are you listening? You never listen.

You never talk —

You’re never here.

You never look —

I love you, you know that? Are you listening to me right now? Do I have your attention? Do these words make sense? How can they when you don’t listen? You don’t see what you ought, what you must. I am not unclear here, I am to the point. Are you so blind as not to know that? How could you not? Do you need me to rip open my chest — do you need to peek inside? Am I not transparent enough? You look through me so well, can you not also see inside; is it too dark, too bright?

Look at me!

It’s all the same —

You’re always staring. What are you starting at? Is it me? No, it can’t be me. What is it then? Why aren’t you talking --- you never talk. Are you listening? I’m not talking to myself, am I? You’re doing it again, that staring that I hate. Stare at me, goddammit! I’m here!

You’re not fucking listening, are you? You’re just staring. Stop. Please, don’t stare — just for once, please. What do you see that I don’t?

I’m letting be —

You know you can'tt let go! You’re not allowed. That is completely unacceptable. No. No. Absolutely not. Do you want me to fall, because, remember this, I don’t want to die, I just want to drown. You understand that, right? Of all people, you must. So please don’t let go. Say you won’t let go. Promise me. Look at me — but don’t stare, you’re always staring — and promise me. You owe me this. You know you do. After all that I’ve done, you owe me this. So do it, promise me. Do it.

I’m letting go —

You said it at least once, didn’t you? You said it sometimes, in a whisper. I heard you so don’t try to deny it like you always do — why do you lie? You said it or you wrote it — what’s the difference? Is there a difference? You said it, I know you did. You said it and I was alive. The sun was brilliant and the waves were calm and we were one island, us against them, and we screamed, ‘Fuck You’ as we floated.

What do you need now? Don’t you see that I have it? Don’t you know that I dream of you every night? I dream of ripping myself open, my chest, cracking the breast plate, howling under the weight of the pain, my heart pounding, blood gushing, all for you, begging you to peek inside, and when you do, you gasp because you’re ready to drown in all the blood and the pain and the love, oh yes, the love. And you pull away with blood on your hands, because I did that for you, pulled myself apart so that you might see, and touch, and taste the blood, all that blood and pain for you — you didn’t know a heart could pump so much blood, did you? Did you know this?

Do you know I wake up wanting to dream that dream all over again? I don’t want to wake up. I don’t ever want my eyes to open. I want to dream blind, with my eyes hollowed out. I want only to hear that crack and feel your fingers against me, pulling closer, inside me, your face against the tear, peeking, staring, at the love that gave all this to you.

It’s all the same —

I’m so tired. I can’t deal with any of this anymore. All your staring, your silence, your — Wait, now I remember: you wrote it. At the end of a letter. Do you remember? You said it, I have proof. Ha! I got you this time, don’t I? You shouldn’t write it down if you don’t mean it. Didn’t anybody ever tell you that words mean something, that words are something? You should be more careful with words.

You’re so fucking blind sometimes. You don’t think. I sometimes think you’re dead. I look at you, and I see an axe through your head, or a bullet in the wall behind you, having passed through your stomach, kidneys, and spinal cord, leaving you crippled at first, crumpled and alone until I show up too late, and I see you lying there, looking alive, eyes wide open. Staring.

Why can’t you see? Why don’t you look? You never look. If you’d look just once, just a peek, you’d see the tear -- right here. It’s sad, isn’t it? Tell me it is. You did that. It’s your fault, all your fault, all yours. How does it feel? Feel it . . . feel it . . . touch it . . . taste it . . . just a sip . . . just a peek . . . look at it . . . think about it . . . its yours . . . you did it . . . now do it again.

Every day it's the same —

Oh God, I’m sorry. You know that, right? You know that I didn’t mean any of that? None of those words, none of those words that hurt. I mean only good, only the best You know that, right? Of all people, you should. If not you, who? You know me better than those words. They’re only words, right? I take them all back. Give them back, please; let go of those words. They’re mine, not yours. You shouldn’t have them. Please, I need them back.

Listen, don’t listen to me — none of this. Because if you’d just look at me you’d see the truth. You’d know that I love you. Isn’t that so clear now? Surely, by now, you understand.

You know, you said it yourself, didn’t you? I thought you did. Wasn’t that you? Who would say that? Nobody. Nobody would say that. That’s why it had to be you. Nobody else. I knew it all along. You said it, now say it again.

Even today —

It’s funny the things that scare a person. Being alone, being forgotten -- being alone and forgotten. Being ordinary, the same — part of the crowd. At ease, patient — sleeping well. These are the things I want to tell you, that I keep trying to telling you, but I’m not sure you’re listening. You’re just staring. Those eyes — What do you see that I don’t? What do you feel that I ought? You're beautiful, and yet — those eyes — but, you’re staring.

What are you thinking? What are your fears? I know you have some — you told me once before. I know what they are, but fears change, right? Fears are like people. We aren’t always afraid of our fears. If only you’d just look, really look, without staring, I’d know that I shouldn’t be scared. Why do you want to frighten me? Is this some sick thrill? How can you be so cold?

You’re dead, aren’t you?

You’re silent —

I keep losing track of what it is I — Are you still staring? Jesus Christ, this is getting old. I mean, I can’t —

You’re blind —

I don’t know what you want. I’d stare back, but all I see is me — too much me — all me — Where do you begin? Do you have any idea what it’s like to see yourself in another? Do you know? Do you have any clue?

All you ever do is stare.

* * * * *

Found this on my harddrive. It's pretty old -- I wrote it a couple of years ago. In some some ways, though, its narrator, who I suspected from the beginning was never completely me, still provokes connections that have nothing to do with the reason I first wrote it.