Only Because I Love You
- Z a k u y o e -

There's no doubt in my mind that I'm capable of doing it. My frail arms, sleeves rolled up, are spread wide in the space before me, and with one hand I support my small frame while leaning on a lusterless wall. My eyes glitter in the darkness of the confined room, reflecting a gleam from both the dim moonlight and the clear shell of tears that polish them. There's no doubt I can do it, staring intently at the blade in my free hand that continues to tempt me.

There's no doubt I can do it.

But why can't I?

Broken records of flashbacks and watersheds fly by me like cars speeding on a roundabout, recurring every so often to haunt my already pained mentality. I can see ephemeral glances of his face, as a picture book having its pages flipped indolantly, seeing the photos inside only occasionally. Dark hair, soft eyes, pales skin-all boldly imprinted in my internal vision. His smile rives my insides, luring me into a complete state of ambivalence between life and death. His illusory tears perplex me, seemingly only in memory yet sploshing my skin as possible only in reality. His laughter is omnipresent, with the simplest of things bringing him vividly back into my mind.

Even in the vacant bathroom, merely staring at my own reflection in the clouded mirror reminds me of him once more.

And it hurts.

I want to do something about it. The blade in my hand shakes slightly, as if attempting to present itself as a solution to my plea for help. It feels as if it is my only escape, but I know I can do better. A motion of my left hand only proves his claims. And yet, it's still an option, an option I've currently regarded higher above any others lying secretively beneath the grass, so to say.

His words are still pounding in my head. I can feel his well chosen words bouncing within the suffocating walls of the source of my lunacy, the words somehow pressing an internal play button of the most sickening events of my life with each collision. His words are insufferable, emboldening the blade to persuade my fingers to create motion. I want to prove him wrong, ridiculing his perfectionist self mockingly as he wallows in the guilt of his previous discourse.

But I know he is right.

And it hurts.

The only thing he has done is confirm the befuddled actions and emotions others held towards me. The way I view my mother's dismissal of me when she learned of who I was on the inside, the way I reacted when my "friends" unapologetically abandoned me when they, too, found out, the way I recovered from when adolescents of more built form cornered me and pounded my gut until I decided to "change," all leading to the same words:

Why do you have to be so emotional?

Does it bother him, perhaps? Did it irritate him, the day I decided to profess my love for him? Why is he truly annoyed by the degree in which I express my feelings? I know what he means, though, despite his efforts to not expose the real truth. I know he is upset because he is the "perfect guy," possessing straight A's even before he knew how to count, and wanting to maintain a perfect image for all others to admire. Obviously, another guy crying over him ruins his perfection.

You know I can't, and I won't...

And it hurts.

I want to believe that he cares for me still. The faint gleam of hope still lingers in the night sky, countering heavily dusk's near futile attempts to conquer the night for itself. His words are harsh yet well chosen, a concept capable of being spewn from such high intellect. His intentions are unclear yet assumed. Does he want to hurt me, or can his words still be more harsh than these? My mind automatically assumes the former, basing the assumption on his previously observed actions. I can still see envision his tense form, faltering as he tried his best to talk to me, perhaps by force. I can recreate the image of his face, perhaps by opening to a page in the picture book, and already I can see his squinted gaze diverting proper eye contact. He ignores me, even in my mind.

And it hurts.

Stop thinking so pessimistically...

I grip the blade in my hand tighter, placing the blunt end so that it rests parallel to my chest. Somehow, holding a knife to my heart relieves me, even without any physical contact. My mind already anticipates my eventual actions, creating an unnerving sense of uneasiness. Is this what it means to be emotional; to act impulsively upon emotions?

"Just do it now," I mutter to the room devoid of listeners, and I can feel myself becoming more hesitant as time passes. I curse myself for waiting this long, extensively contemplating an irrational action that is meant to be done as quickly as possible. Am I really being emotional? Is he really right? I shake my head violently, refusing to give in to his claims. I want him to be wrong; I want to prove him false.

But I am emotional. And I am being pessimistic. And I can't deny it anymore than I can deny my sexuality.

My hand lowers from my chest, and with a deepening sigh I tilt my head back in pain. I slowly loosen my grip on the blade, and within seconds I hear it clatter to the ground. Why did I give in? Because I knew he was right? I slowly look into the mirror once more, and his attractive reflection stares back at me.

And it hurts.

But it isn't me that I'm seeing. It's him. Have I truly obsessed over him to the point where everything, including myself, reminds me of him? Every recurring memory, every set of blue eyes, does everything link slowly back to him, all doomed to return to the discourse that rejected me to begin with?

The blade has already fallen... what else can I do? A violent slash of a knife can do no more harm than each of his warming smiles has already done to my heart., not to include the torture my mind endures merely to stay sane. The manner in which he avoids me murders my day. My failed attempts at an apology only finishes the day off for me, and by the end of each day I have endured more than the average kid should.

Stop thinking so pessimistically...

...not everything has to be your fault.

I don't want to admit it, but maybe he is right. An attractive genius of both timid and stubborn characteristics, yet a genius nonetheless. As I turn my back to my mirror I begin to shudder experience the catharsis that most tragic heroes suffer. Perhaps I am the one ignorant of the issue, the one fearful to accept wrong. I am positive that I am the one experiencing the pain, but perhaps my lunatic mind has skewed the issue. His claims... are perhaps well meant after all.

You know I can't, and I won't...

...there's something called neutral ground.

Somehow I like the sound of that. I return to the sink to wash my face, and as I splash water onto my face I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Not him. Me. Not the blue eyes and brown hair that has haunted my mind for days without end. My hair. My eyes. My face. I realize that not everything has to be about him. I can immerse myself with as much of him as I want. But my life doesn't have to depend on him, nor on the blade that now rests motionless on my bathroom floor.

Why do you have to be so emotional?

...just be yourself.

And almost in response I nod my head. I turn away from the sink, taking in a deep breath, and as I raise my head proudly I walk out of the bathroom and enter the harshness of the outer world once more. The adaption back to normal life may be difficult, but it is because of his seeminly ill-wishing claims that I am able to adapt. I wanted to end it all, but he, the person who incited the thoughts to begin with, ultimately was my savior. Now, I choose to live through these events and integrate him back into my life.

And it hurts.

But only because I love him.

- f i n -