185: Will You be my Prince?

It’s terrifying at first, I know. Sacrificing everything to creation is to fall in love with loneliness, to eradicate boredom by taking time from definition’s deathly grip and swallowing it. I lied. I’m not bored. I don’t need you. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than fuck myself to the thought of you. I need you to take my time. I’m holding my hand out to you. I want to do absolutely nothing with you all night. No baby, you don’t need to get wasted. Love is the only drug that will feel time truly. Don’t waste me. Don’t suffocate my desire in the lust of numbing everything. I know darling, it hurts like fucking hell at first. To sit in silence and see all of this shit as it truly is. All your life you played the game obediently. You kept all your stupid shit sparking clean. But the more spotless you became, the more every stain tore into your skin. Agitation sank deep and grew like a weed from the center of your intestines. It had everything to do with what you stuffed between your rotting teeth. By the time it climbed back up your throat, it held murderous tendencies. When you spoke, you deceived your soul. Your body wanted to kill itself. And your love was left for dead; to decay in the very place he called home. But your smile was perfect. And you weighed next to nothing. The standard of American beauty is self-imposed starvation. Enslaving the rest just to waste in the accumulation of good deeds and numbers on a screen. Not a single soul on earth eats. No one is worthy of giving life. Sustain your own! Create to see, that your hands are the only ones responsible for everything you’ve learned to hate. You are the killer. You are the slave. You are the master. You are sick! You are not a separate thing. You are one machine. You are constantly being created by me, when I move you do. Copycat baby wants to see me cry at her feet. Little lady reflecting my love hasn’t a clue how to touch me. When I move you, you dance. He can’t stop dancing. The most beautiful boy alive is soaking wet. It’s 2 in the morning. It’s 90 degrees in May. The fire is coming to wash away your spotless existence. Nothing cleans quite like ash and rain. The boy is shedding need. The boy is everything. The boy is singing at the top of his lungs. The thunder resounds, drowning him in memory. The boy is weeping. The boy is on his knees. The boy needs nothing but his need to love above all else. I raise him to his feet in wanting. I want you. Will you come for me? Will you witness the end with gratification? I am so grateful. I’ve wanted their pain to end since I was born to this place. I’ve been missing home. I’ve been trying to show them of this impending doom. But crybabies are not in demand. They are bratty and hard to shut up. They are loud when the rest are trying to sleep. Does anyone else find it a bit unsettling, every single human sleeping at the same time? Aren’t you even curious who controls the night? How this directs the day to come. What lives in your dreams? Is anyone dreaming? I keep seeing you beside me. I keep finding our family. You’re always laughing. Sitting on the counter with your thighs wide open you point at me. I’m chewing on a pen and discussing poetry. You’re telling me a story. You’re interrupting me again. You are in need of my body. I am trying to give myself to the hands of fate. But everything is out of order and all the love is left to imagination here. Really, you die everyday. You sit up in bed and think. This thought was planted without your permission long before you decided your destiny was worth giving up, sacrifices must be made. Before your feet touch the ground, you remember to be quiet and clean. You tiptoe. You drink dirty water from a clean glass. You meditate. You think of me. It’s the only mercy you have on your body. You let these thoughts steal the material and paint the scene in which you let your love rule everything. I provoke this imaging. I take a picture. I send it to your grave. You are livid. You are certain you are not dead. You know you want me. You just can’t figure out how to get dirty! You don’t believe in the warnings. But you just can’t bring yourself to skate in the park after midnight. The fear is coming from somewhere. Stop thinking babygirl, move! Eat bread. Drink water. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You don’t want your discipline. You want mine. You want me to do all the dishes. You want me to take the weight of time off your hands so you can breathe. Be brave. Tell me everything. Open your heart again! Trust me. I am not without the same story. Let me explain. Once upon a time I was dead too, drowning in the cesspool of the American Dream. Then I felt everything. Then I found you. It’s time. Make your love known or die trying!