This is the dramatic anticlimax to a play that lasted hours. The paradox is a legend like no other.
You told me to never write about you. We’ve come too far to not know how you wanted to age and be a regular Joe. You’d read how I wrote about him and you did not wanted to be immortal in my words. In those five minutes, I saw the next two years of my life. I knew I’d be lying if I made a promise, but I did anyway. I swore that night, tucked away from all ache, and I swore that your essence would never find a way into my paragraphs.
But it was like a principle to you. Rummage through the wreckage, pick up the shards. Bleed me out and stitch it all up. Sink all hope and then lift my anchor.
Oh, you knew who I was right away. And you chose to stay and watch as I cracked at the edges, clutched at the seams. You were facile and I, foolish. You say you hate me for leaving, for walking away. But I knew what you hate me for the most. You hate me because you knew in the very heart that I would write pages and pages of what you did to my strength. Your incoherence was endearing. You pretended to love me as I disobeyed and stayed awake at four and wrote about how you first spoke to me.
He didn’t and you couldn’t stay either. Its good because this time, I didn’t love you. I was braver than you thought I could be. From six feet under, you’d probably hear me screaming.
But honey, I wasn’t looking for a muse. I was looking for someone who saw me as I was. You saw me as a child who could be helped. I was your project. And I will write about how you put me together and pulled me apart, as I stretched at my hinges and tore at my rims. I will make your horrors eternal, for you will remember that I am your apocalypse.