Hope becomes a pretty stupid thing when you pair it with unrequited feelings. Just look at me, putting nonexistent meanings in unfamiliar songs and writing fine print between lines with no further depth. There’s a difference between being cynical and being delusional. Can you justify hope you’ve molded yourself? Can you believe in what wasn’t naturally granted? Is it logical to cling onto artificial hope that you cannot make destiny take credit for?
Whether it’s the third bottle of vodka or the little left of frail sanity to blame, I still saw green when the blinding lights screamed red. I put my two feet to one pedal and floored it. I’m usually a coward; he was wrong. I’m not fearless. I’m reckless out of fear of what would happen if I did nothing at all. The one time I really should have backed out, I dived in again, knowing full well I would crash. These hands have done more destroy than create, and now, it would seem it’s my turn to be destroyed. I’ve given myself a beating but I’m asking him to deal the final blow. The dealer is the only part of the pain game that I get to choose.
I shouldn’t be able to write this fluidly. Despair’s best disguise was always a blessing of some kind. Most days I have to crank until steam spews out of my ears; oil the gears of my mind until I bleed a kind of literary something that seems worthwhile, but today it spills, achingly, without any effort at all. I’ve never coughed up blood but I imagine the feeling is similar: your insides contort, organs practicing origami folds until your mind can’t remember where these pieces really belonged, and despite the obstacle course that is your body and the journey up the tunnel of your neck, the pain comes up anyway, not perfect nor polished but out of you nonetheless.
I know I cannot blame him, since he has not done anything wrong, but perhaps that is the root of the problem.