Cupid’s poison slowly devoured my entire being; numb and rotten, I remained like a lion, doomed behind bars, trapped and roaring until I bled. Only her image still haunted my eyes, only her words echoed in my ears; I could no longer burn them from my thoughts, and gradually I lost control: aaaaah!
I lay on my bed, dying of pain; love had truly got the better of me now. Love hurts; love, so intense, always presented itself to me behind bars, in an endless series of obstacles. I thought I’d overcome it all—after all the movies I’d seen and books I’d read, now I was sure I had it figured out.”. Only to ultimately crash into a massive colossus, a colossus against which I was powerless; it left me shattered. She had someone else, she had someone else. Yet she wanted to see me again. As a friend— that fucking farce? I saw more than friendship; this time, I couldn’t settle for friendship.
She completely consumed me those nights; I had the shameful feeling that I needed her, just like my own heartbeat. The idiot that I was—why, why couldn’t I just look away from Medusa’s gaze, flip a switch, and be done with it? No, she left me completely petrified.
They even fought over me—I, the snake in the tree, for him; I wished to be the apple in the tree, for her. That’s how I ended up, like a worm in the process of decay, helping to break it down further, “Take the apple, take the apple, so I can taste your lips,” I begged her, but she was the damned paradise, and I was in hell, so the pain seemed eternal and I would have shed my skin away before she was set free…
Never had it been so intense, never had I been so certain, never had I fought so hard for it; for the first time, she had me on my knees, trampled and torn apart, I pulled myself up again and again, and gradually hoped to enter the greatest dilemma, to penetrate their lives further like a snake, but my patience felt paper-thin, ready to snap at any moment,
exploding into a pool of pathetic masochism:
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh!
Hear this plea from the fast-food romantic, the poet of clichés—it’s a shame, but they’re true—so I lose myself over and over, until it stops, some day, but not now, not now.
Geef een reactie