fictional realities

you are someone i wish to hate, but i never could.
i could scrawl poetry across your skin and in it would be all of my secrets you never knew but you'd tell me i used too many metaphors. i could sing my life to you with this guitar in my hand and the lyrics could weave an intricate tale but you'd tell me the melody was off. i could write you stories and stories about made up places and made up names but it would really be about us and you'd just tell me my diction was terrible. i could paint you pictures upon pictures about how things should be and you'd criticise my brushstrokes for being too large.

but i wonder if i could paint you and then strip the paint off inch by inch to reveal what is hiding beneath your walls. i wonder if it is someone as vile as you seem to be, or maybe that is all just an act. maybe you are just protecting yourself. god knows we all want to. we are all so selfish; we are all so desperate. (still i am holding out hopeless hope that you are different from the rest though i learned a long time ago that hope is futile. disappointment always prevails). i am still waiting for you to spill your secrets to me like i refuse to do for you. but you know as well as i do that words can be the most dangerous weapons of all, they can maim and kill as easily as a gun and i am just waiting for my opportunity.

"god," i'll say, finger on the trigger, laughing. "i have waited for this for so long."