Blank

In my dreams it's black. It's a very dark street. There is only one streetlight. It's far away, and casts a harsh pool of light. I face it, and hate the shadows that it casts, and the things it illuminates. All my regrets and hopes and feeling stretch out before me. They are ugly – raw and bleeding. The street is empty, and I am alone. And it hurts and I'm scared, and I can feel the presence of all those responsible for this street and this scene. And I know it in my heart, with a great burning dread, that there is no room for me. And I'm a fool; because everything was already set, in ways it has always been, and ways it will always be. And I can never say it, for their protestations would just annoy. Their reliance is mutual and exclusive, and a razor to me.

And I hate this hurt. And I hate these tears. I hate this insignificance. I hate this temporary person that I am. I hate this street, and all the times I have stood here alone. With a lump in my throat so big that it's painful.

It's the hardest thing I'll ever have to do. It's the hardest thing I've ever had to accept – that all that I've given is ignored, and how much it cost me is irrelevant.

How can I bear to turn away? I hate this, but it binds me here. I know I should go, and I can hear him calling me. But his voice is so far away, this beautiful boy of safety and comfort. Would he save me if I let him?

I just want peace. Just nothing, merciful blankness …

So with my back to them I crawl away, with a hollow chest and an aching head; with no dignity and a heart full of shame.

I wish you could see the beast you've made of me.