i wrote something for you,
but you won't read it
you were always so proud of me. you believed in me because you knew i was destined for greatness. when that greatness deviated toward a demonic hive dripping in freedom and tasting like the skin of a woman, i crushed your dreams. your own desires, kept secret, were whisked away. my exit was performative. what you couldn’t see were my exposed bones, and the beating, bleeding tissue. we all kept secrets.
“you should write a letter,” someone with advice would say to me. “you don’t have to hand it over. just write about how you feel.”
i could never pass a note so vile. it’s possible you found them anyways. i always left my trails.
i can’t talk to you. i won’t talk to you, now. you misunderstand me on purpose, or misrepresent me in your own mind to fit the dead narrative. while i’m living, existing, and goated for my talents, you’re still bitter.
you couldn’t be me. despite your deepest jealousy, there is no way that the universe will manipulate so that i may see what it’s like from your perspective, and so you can get your rocks off deviating freely in my body suit. you would do all the things you wish you could have done, and none of those things i would ever choose for myself. that’s why you hate me, too.
i’ve always done better than you. i’ve been faster, stronger, louder, smarter, meaner, cooler, sexier, and in every way, bigger. the only solace you find is when you can look upon my human form in disgust and think to yourself, “at least i’m not them.” except that you are because we share the same DNA. your features are worn on my face. my isms have become habitual for you. i always asked that we share the burden, and you took advantage of my strength.
i learned manipulation on your behalf. if i would have known that this is what destroyed a handful of my friendships… i guess i don’t know whether to thank you or blame you. how can a friendship sustain if it is built upon mutual manipulation?
we’re evidence that it cannot.
i’ve not strayed, no matter how i’ve been pushed. does bastard rhyme with Boston? how far can a high-speed train wreck go when it veers off-course?
what about the the legacy? well, at least he’ll never know what it feels like to be called a bastard—to be a bastard.
there is no one else on earth but you. i wish you thought about it more. you’re right, and you’re inevitably wrong about that. see, the lens you have is one and the only one you’ll ever have, but the day the legacy was born, your reality shattered like a hall of mirrors. you didn’t account for anyone in-relation, and now everyone is a threat.
my children will never know exile. they’ll only know the roadsigns i’ve painted in clear and plain language that directs them to greatness. the journey is harrowing as any, and arduous. some will get lost. they’ll still know where home is.
for you, there is no meaning. there is no stretch of imagination. nothing makes me more sorrowful than the fact that there is also no purpose. you’re clinging onto something that will explode, and you won’t be ready for fallout. you’ll give up before you ask for help. you’d rather die than admit your faults.
“i really liked what you wrote,” someone said to me about something i wrote for you. compliments like this have been increasing but i’ve learned not to utter your name or how i know you so that you’re never blamed for the harm you continue to cause. it would be so embarrassing if people knew how terrible you are.
i’m sorry that they already know. i’m glad you have no friends. though, a friend would do you good.
i’m not a replacement for what you lack. i don’t even think you miss me until you’ve realized you’ve been starved of the delicious fruits i offer by my very presence. i cannot be anyone but who i am. you’ve manipulated me into being there, being available, so that you never have to know what its like when the magic is gone. you better be careful these days, though. i’ve been stepping on a lot of cracks. i’ve been wishing on a lot of stars. i’ve been talking to the trees.
the Earth is decisive, and strategic. when your ashes finally lay to rest, everything i’ve written about will be composted and made anew.
i’ve grown to learn not to miss you. i’ve learned how to hate you in return. how long have i resisted the urge to feel hatred at my very core in order to preserve you? the answer is undoubtedly: too long. like most feelings, we feel and they pass.
i’ve written so many things from a place of love to show you how beautiful the world is.
i wrote something for you,
and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you
but you won’t read it. i’m done asking myself why not. nothing i can do will change that fact. the word of god pouring from my sinful soul wouldn’t capture your attention.