It's never the time
Why would I
Spoil a perfect evening?
It hurts, but it doesn't bruise. I don't bruise. Not much. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try. Try to bruise, try to apologize, try to be ashamed. Try to be sorry. And I am, in some ways. I'm sorry for how I've warped your life. I'm sorry for all I took you away from, I'm sorry for all I complicated, I'm sorry for all I damaged.
We've gotten this far
On being polite
You have no idea how beautiful you are. You may never. Just as you may never know how badly I've wounded everything you are, how irreparably I cripple everything I touch. Just as you may never know how sorry I am for all of it.
Besides
I know you're proud of me
You may never know that I'm not sorry. Sorry for hurting you, yes. Sorry for putting a fracture in your beauty that may never go away. Sorry for upsetting the line, the road, the path, that should have taken you where you wanted to be. Sorry for making you think that I could give you fairy tales, could give you happily ever after, could give you a princess or a goddess or even a human.
When I was made
Did they leave out a part?
Did you know this, and choose to guard the secret?
I'm not sorry for who I am. I wish I was sorry. I SHOULD be sorry. But it's not the same thing. At some level, I am too much in love with this horror. I hesitate to type it, I delete it, my stomach turns - that indicates to me that it is right, that I must set it down. If my body rebels, it is true as the truth can be.
You said 'everybody's born
With a beautiful heart.'
What was wrong with hers?
Why did you leave it?
I should be sorry that there's something wrong with me, that I'm too emotional, too reactionary, too vulnerable, too dangerous. I should be sorry that I scare you - not angry that you can't take it. I should be considerate, be thoughtful, remember that I am not in my right mind, am rarely in my right mind, cannot make decisions this way, cannot make statements this way. As I promised myself. I should be ashamed of the way my skin splits over my knuckles. Instead of sorry that I didn't bleed more. Instead of sorry that I won't bruise.
If I start to cry
I may not stop.
It hurts. I punched a tree tonight, again. Badly. Hard as I could, over and over. But my body has learned. It doesn't send blood to those hands anymore. It doesn't try to heal them right away. I don't bruise. I never bruise. Hickeys, yes. But no bruises. Just like when I was a teenager... none of it means anything, because there are no bruises.
Love runs dry...
I run off.
I'm sorry for everything I do to you. The truth is that I should be kept away from people, from people like you. From exactly the kind of people I love. Because you are too perfect, too valuable, too important to place in my hands. Perhaps Katrina knew years ago what it has taken me till now to realize: I must be kept away from good people. I damage them. I love them... and then I damage them. The road to hell, et cetera. It's a cliche. It's all a cliche.
Can you help me with this heart
Inside my chest?
It's all a cliche, it's all been done, it's all been played. We're all such terribly self-absorbed people. We want so badly to be different, to be special, even in our self-abnegation. But there is no way on this earth to obliterate the ego that has not been tried before. And every single attempt, by definition, is an enhancement to that very ego. God... so insufferable. Trust me, I hear this tone in my voice. I know how bad it is, and I'm closer to it. I have to live with it every day.
It ain't perfect
But you should see me use it.
Maybe that's why this. Because there is no dinh. There is no answer. There is no one better than you, no one wiser than you, no one infallible who can ever tell you with perfect certainty what you should do and whom you should be. Every soul who has ever attempted to give you counsel has doubted, has sinned, has wept, has wanted to kill themselves. They have all had moments of weakness in which they were more selfish, more helpless, more useless than you will ever know. No one is worthy of respect. Which means that everyone is.
But it only works
When I've made a mess
When it looks like
I'm about to lose it.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry every single day for everything I've done. To you, Aidan - for everything I have even begun to do to you, and for the future and everything I will do to warp and harm everything you are, everything I find beautiful about you. Because that is how it happens. As much as I would give almost anything to worship at your feet - as much as I am dying, every single moment, to set down my burdens and be helpless at your hand, more than you can ever know - I can't. I want to, and I can't. And I'm sorry for that too. You deserve everything from me. You are more than I ever expected to find in this world. I wish that I could be everything you need.
If I start to cry
I may not stop.
Love runs dry...
And I run off.
To you, B, for everything I promised you and have never delivered. May never. I should tell you that I'm not the person I promised you that I would be. I don't know that I will ever be. All I can ever give you is the knowledge that I wanted to be - that for you I would have given everything in the world to become what you deserve, and that you deserve more than I have ever given you or ever will. I am so sorry for what I've done to you, for how I've tormented and twisted you. You are so utterly perfect - there has never been anything wrong with you. I promise. I swear to god. You are the greatest gift I have ever been given. I only wish that I could ever have had a prayer of being worthy of it.
Yeah, I'm just like my mother
Yeah. I'm just like my mother.
And if you don't love her...
What does that mean about me?
To you whom I love and cannot name - because your names sting my tongue, because the weight on my shoulders of everything I have done to hinder or harm you silences me. And I'm sorry for that too. God - there was a time when I didn't know guilt or regret. When I could not think of a thing I'd done in the world that I was ashamed of. But you know what I think? I think maybe... maybe that was my way of dealing with the fact that I had never done a single thing in my life that I wasn't ashamed of.
If I start to cry
I may not stop.
I want to know why
I run off.
I wish I could think of anything productive I've ever had or done that I haven't subsequently proceeded to royally fuck up. But there isn't anything. Any skill or power I've ever had, I've wasted. Any opportunity I've ever been given, I've squandered. Any gift I've ever been lucky enough to receive, I've proved unworthy of. So I'm sorry for that too. I'm sorry for not being what I should have been - for any of you, ever, in any way.
I want to know why
I'm like this.
I want to know why.
posted by Maestro # 2:42 AM 
