I'd mark it off as another accomplishment
as I saw him cry
. They would all cry, I could make them do it. I'd carry on my role
until I knew it was time. I could take their dreams
and slowly rip them apart between my hands
as if it were a piece a paper and I'd force them to watch in agony. I could pick one out anywhere - walking down a street, sitting in a corner in a club, the words upon a screen
. Those kind of men, those kind of people, who were so ready to love
. So ready to be loved, but were either too shy or simply too misunderstood
. I would show them that love and take theirs, then I'd crush them. Step on them, under the heel of my shoe and watch them cry.
I wanted them to hurt like I
did. I wanted to know that there were people in the world
that felt the same. I wanted to destroy myself
and I sure as hell wasn't going down alone.
I am. I know I took something
from each of them. I could see it in their faces as I watched them break
. One of them calls me up every few months, plastered and incoherent
, and begs me to love him. He's not moved in five years, still in place, in his limbo
, wanting me to love him again. I'm sorry.