(no subject)
All the usual stuff. Delete it if you want.
Staring at the ceiling. It’s the only thing I do anymore. I painted it black a long time ago because of a joke one of my friends made....about how the spiders I was obviously staring at would be easier to see against black paint.
Black paint. Get rid of one letter and it’s black pain. How appropriate.
I don’t sleep anymore....I don’t really eat anymore, except when my mother sits next to me and makes me, and when I actually do, I feel nauseous. Everything hurts, it feels like every bone in my body was shattered a long time ago with out ever being properly taken care of, and it’s raining all the time.
Sometimes it changes, though. Sometimes the depression goes away. And the anger replaces it. At times like those, it feels like the rain has become a storm, thunder and lightening outside my window, and the pain becomes worse....so much worse. But I thrive off of it....the pain makes me stronger, and as I become more powerful the pain becomes excruciating and I end up doing something stupid.
But those aren’t my only two moods. Sometimes I’m neither depressed nor infuriated for a brief, calm, wonderful period of time. Those are the moments I think of when I reach my lowest points. Those are the moments that keep me from taking my own life.
Those are the moments with him.
Because when he comes, everything gets better. I can ignore the guilt burning in my stomach when I’m with him. He’s perfect, more than perfect, he’s my god. I’d gladly give my life as long as I could die in his arms. When he comes around, I have to be good, his good little boy, and be exactly as he expects me to be. If I didn’t I might hurt him. And I can’t hurt him. He’s perfect, my god, and I have to keep him happy as long as he’s with me so he won’t go away.
But he has too, he has to leave, because I’m not his life. His world doesn’t revolve around me, he has other better, more important, things to do. So he leaves, says goodbye, see you soon, ciao babe, arriverderci. And then the guilt burns a path up from my stomach to the corners of my eyes. And I watch him leave with invisible tears running down my face, and invisible tears rending my soul.
The guilt has to come, sooner or later. Because God made Eve, not Steve, and all that jazz, and being gay’s wrong, and evil, and people hate it. And if it were to come out that I was in love with my idol, my god, a man, then people might hate him too.
And that just can’t happen.
So I stand up in my room with the window open, waving goodbye and shouting farewell, all while I’m dying inside. For him. For you. My perfect idol, my god.
My Reverence.
My Infernal Majesty.
Staring at the ceiling. It’s the only thing I do anymore. I painted it black a long time ago because of a joke one of my friends made....about how the spiders I was obviously staring at would be easier to see against black paint.
Black paint. Get rid of one letter and it’s black pain. How appropriate.
I don’t sleep anymore....I don’t really eat anymore, except when my mother sits next to me and makes me, and when I actually do, I feel nauseous. Everything hurts, it feels like every bone in my body was shattered a long time ago with out ever being properly taken care of, and it’s raining all the time.
Sometimes it changes, though. Sometimes the depression goes away. And the anger replaces it. At times like those, it feels like the rain has become a storm, thunder and lightening outside my window, and the pain becomes worse....so much worse. But I thrive off of it....the pain makes me stronger, and as I become more powerful the pain becomes excruciating and I end up doing something stupid.
But those aren’t my only two moods. Sometimes I’m neither depressed nor infuriated for a brief, calm, wonderful period of time. Those are the moments I think of when I reach my lowest points. Those are the moments that keep me from taking my own life.
Those are the moments with him.
Because when he comes, everything gets better. I can ignore the guilt burning in my stomach when I’m with him. He’s perfect, more than perfect, he’s my god. I’d gladly give my life as long as I could die in his arms. When he comes around, I have to be good, his good little boy, and be exactly as he expects me to be. If I didn’t I might hurt him. And I can’t hurt him. He’s perfect, my god, and I have to keep him happy as long as he’s with me so he won’t go away.
But he has too, he has to leave, because I’m not his life. His world doesn’t revolve around me, he has other better, more important, things to do. So he leaves, says goodbye, see you soon, ciao babe, arriverderci. And then the guilt burns a path up from my stomach to the corners of my eyes. And I watch him leave with invisible tears running down my face, and invisible tears rending my soul.
The guilt has to come, sooner or later. Because God made Eve, not Steve, and all that jazz, and being gay’s wrong, and evil, and people hate it. And if it were to come out that I was in love with my idol, my god, a man, then people might hate him too.
And that just can’t happen.
So I stand up in my room with the window open, waving goodbye and shouting farewell, all while I’m dying inside. For him. For you. My perfect idol, my god.
My Reverence.
My Infernal Majesty.