For your eyes

I have this urge, to share with someone. But not anyone, not in a public way. Maybe that’s deficiency, malignment. Fear. But I want to share with you. Maybe that’s weakness, dependency. A craving to be seen by eyes who truly care to see. See beyond our conditional nature.

I have nothing left to give. The crushing must have won, in a relieving way, a surrender like a deep sigh that lets the belly hang free. I’m not on display any longer.

I have no doubt that you reached out with selfish desire, as selfish desire. Compelled. Consumed. Wanting and not believing at the same time. But needing. It was hungry, and you had starved it beyond what it could stomach. So it ate you.

It took you again, and I bet it felt like shit. Remember how you didn’t have time for me? Until you felt something missing. It’s nice to know someone will be there, has promised to always be there, how you feel it all to be true, and bury the worry that knows forever can’t be held by promises. But lies can live forever, as long as you keep feeding them with your life.

I know it feels sickening to be this way. It feels like you either need to die or double down on all that worldliness. Your mind, the ego, can do it. It can do either, maybe both, but it cannot chose for you.

It can convince you of the choice; pin the decision on it feeling right. If you commit. If you make the mind your bitch. Pummel pummel shove. Box it up and feed it scraps of empty and pretend it isn’t growing stronger tucked away from your presence. The mind feeds on nothingness. Thrives on neglect. It cannot starve.

I think of you when I write this, but know it’s not destined for your eyes. That you must find this for yourself in the feelings of experience.

I have this brief feeling sometimes, like my face has finally relaxed. And I see your face hovering above mine. Yours is not relaxed. It’s biting itself—from the inside. Biting your own mouth. Frowning with sight, at your own face.

I can feel the tiny muscles fade, retreat behind my bones. I see your face, contemplating. Mine gave up, while yours looked upon my relief as a reminder that rest is short lived.

Or that you must say something, but can’t. Can’t ruin the only rest that perfection can find: looking at you.

Maybe you don’t remember. Maybe you were thinking while I wasn’t, finding all the weakness and ugliness of the creature below. Remember how you asked: “what are you thinking?” And it was truly nothing. Finally. Nothing. Free.

And I never could see your flaws as that. Could never see the bubbling overflow that was your toxicity as anything else but something to worship.

You knew that, but still had to ask, “what?” How you laughed knowing, a coy nervousness that knew it held someone else’s future.

I never got to stare at another soul the way you let me stare at you.

Those are my memories. How I was allowed by God to stare. And how I was finally not afraid to be looking at myself.

In denial of the obvious truth: you could not do the same. Not for us.