I never thought i would be the blogging type (whatever that even means) but im not really the diary type, or the random DMC type (except when im sipped and shaming my family) but it turns out that i am. It also turns out that its a little harder than i thought, because writing, truly writing, requires baring parts of yourself that make you vulnerable.
So the other day i wrote, truly wrote. From a place partly of experience, partly of hurt and partly of other people's pain. It turns out that those who cannot scream, write.
Listening to the sounds of memories lost in the diaspora of hating you,
Hating the thought of unravelled hopes and dishevelled futures as you forge your future with her,
Her cries and anguish only a confirmation that my laughter must too have been hollow,
Yet these hallowed halls of our love and lust and lie haunt my happiness.
Happily hampering the illusion of progress,
Progressively, agressively i concede that yes: i am only as much yours as you allow me, and you are as much mine as i deprive you.
Listening to the sounds of laughter smothered by a torrent of confusion,
Confused by the thought of the love laced with hate, or hate laced with love..
Or perhaps light little lulling's of a lust that is neither hate nor love.
Perhaps we are lace;
White but not pure- pierced intricately enough to be not quite blemish but not quite whole.
Too beautiful to wear, too beautiful not to.
Adorning my heart with the distant sounds of memories laced in love and lust and hate,
I must finally concede and rescind every forehead kiss, every stroke of the cheek, every moment of bliss,
Sublime in our complexity- Perhaps we are lace.