You corrupted my mind. I used to hate you for it. Used to hate you for the vengeful thoughts thrumming against my brain like skeleton fingers.
I don't. Not anymore.
I reached inside my throat yesterday. Again and again and again. I tried to feel for the ichor in my heart, but it has seeped into my chest. Released from its cage of mania forever.
My heart is free, Tom, and I'm starting to love you again because of it. Is it love? Can I love without a heart?
Or is that what is required to love you.
Not a question. A confirmation. Confirmed by the veins of black that marble in my glassy chest.
No. The love is something else entirely. Transient, passing into the eternal cycles of living. Created by an artist, a blank masterpiece on an easel. And then you painted it, relentlessly. You painted the night, resting in the cricket's lullaby. Painted the silence that followed, like a blanket of poison. Painted an unfocused vast, a dawn devoid of birdsong.
And then you covered it, erasing the chance for the dawn to bathe in the light of the sun. You replaced it with blackness, angry, large strokes of it. And I was forced to watch you erase my being, the only evidence of my existence my love for you.
That love stares at me menacingly, an airy angel of death. And only when I stare back into the darkness do I realize it's my own eyes beholding me.
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