It entwines me.
I encircle myself in its pain and its fury.
Drawing me in with its soft whispers of paranoia and vengeance.
Family and friends stare through me,
nodding "sympathetically" for the cold waters of the hell in which I wait through.
"Why can't you just love me?" She begs.
"Why are you so selfish?"
Selfish? I ponder.
My life and my childhood are gone.
Taken from me in snippets of unbearable injustice,
in which I can't or won't bring myself to remember.
They beg me to soar upward, beyond its woeful tendencies.
I wish to scream at them for their blindness.
"Can't you see!" I yell.
I am not you, you don't understand.
Manhood bled out of me before I was even potty trained.
Over and over.
Their mouths say "I'm sorry," yet their eyes,
their eyes yell...
"get over it."
Get over the shadows I check over my shoulder for?
The nights that I toss and turn?
What of the dreams?
The dreams where I become HER?
Just "get over it."
Hahaha, a cruel joke?
"Love me" she says.
How can I love when I feel nothing?
I weep not at funerals or weddings or sad movies.
I force out jokes as an ill fated attempt to heal old wounds, or at least numb them.
"Love me" she begs.
Do I feel love?
Or is it the impression of it?
"I'm sorry" I scream, mostly to the dead boy in my head.
They nod as I explain.
Pretending to understand, when they can not.
Their eyes scream their true feelings.
I'm hyper vigilant,
and I'm proud.
You "get over it."