an ocean of sorrow in you

My truth is nothing but empty cans, crushed and disposed, yet fastened onto a string that I pull behind me, clamoring at every step I take ahead, resounding their presence every time I lie. I could start with when I told you your face felt like porcelain between my hands, when they actually felt like sculpted ashes. Or when I let you glance into my closet and let you believe there were only cobwebs, when truthfully, the restless skeletons had found a way to hide behind the utopia I wished for you to have.
I couldn’t find any way of telling you I can only love things destined for doom. I’ve loved holding bodies that would burst into swarms of dust, I’ve loved kissing lips that turned cold and shrunk with human touch. I couldn’t help me from drowning myself when I saw you wade into the waters, and watch you lose your breath while my lungs were full of air. I broke every glass you ever touched, saved every drink you spilled, and these possessions became my sanctuary.
I lived off your destruction, like fungi on a rotting tree bark. I leeched off your pain, your shattered conscience, your madness and your sorrow. And it felt good. Good in the way a grave digger would feel when he finally sees the coffin descend unto the earth, knowing the body isn’t his own, no matter how many times his hallucinations tell him otherwise.
I imagine I will be you some day. I imagine that when my blade leaves your throat, the blood that drains out is mine.
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