The dark appearance of the half-dead person

Have you ever thought about how many of you were dead in other people’s minds? How many wounded replicas of you are walking in the streets, beaten and wounded, hit, raped, left behind, or left to die? Those are the same people but in different bodies. I collect them as they pass by me and keep them pressed between my thoughts and palms, a collection of possible truths, future qualities, and ideas of some pretentious minds. That’s how I collected you, in the pieces that you left exposed at the wrong time of my passing through you. The demon in me says that my suspicion of other people is abnormal. I want to tell him all the reasons why I keep my word- a misanthrope, safely tucked under my ribs.

Instead, I’m talking about balloons in children’s hands and how unhappy they are because they won’t think like me. I want to tell him the reason why I became this thing. It’s very simple. I loved. It’s the terror of love, hunting of the hearts, the unnecessary burden. And I still love, though I hide my reasons and my thoughts carefully enough. I still love the smell of gunpowder in the air after you explode and burst out of the apartment telling I’m crazy. I still love the way you hush me down, that unique intelligence that sweats me till I realize the purpose of my negligence. But, if we stop talking, I want you to know that I survived, overwhelmed, cursed and cut to the bones, with a sudden urge to continually laughing out loud, accused of fetishizing, pretentiously expressing myself, being sold by my late-night demon, talking too loud, being too obvious, a rusty hook for them to hang on their gossips, just the dark appearance of the half-dead person (definitely not the original thought in my head).

What kind of accident am I, unless someone sees it? Everyone looks at happy people. Here I am, stuck inside an airtight pipe, your average misanthrope, complete by a vulgarity filter and habit warnings, at the place where I call you, where you call me. I stand in front of you, allow them to shoot at me, stopping inappropriate comments and stories about you for being mine. The judgments burn the throat like hydrogen peroxide. What’s your passion, your deepest and most expressed truth about me? Let everything surface, make from it a thrill of a lifetime. Go and make a joke of yourself to the point of exhaustion, and don’t worry if you skip any thoughts. Save them for later, as a protection against the world. You are going to a different place, but to transform yourself, you need to leave some pieces behind. I’m talking about myself, as your trigger and the simplicity of a dichotomy. Because, I was only touching you with the tip of a lighted pen, never with my fingers, to feel my fire.

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