"Jaydon…"
I'm still waiting for this to have some kind of effect on me. This moment, this place, the smell, the tear stains on your cheeks, the monster that is reflected in your eyes; my vain attempts of trying to feel something.
"Please talk to me"
A wave of goose-bumps washes me like feathers teased across my skin. And for a moment I think I had a glimpse of clarity. It's gone again. I'm fighting this just as hard as you are. Breath, relax, let go.
"Don't do this please."
More beautiful than razorblades and candle wax, more enlightening than meditation and asceticism, excising myself from you like a cancer, destroying the final strand of beauty in my life. This is my Jesus, and I'm holding the hammer and nails.
"Say something!"
Penitence always comes in short bursts. The pain begins to form in my stomach and I waver, tremble, and fight to keep myself from throwing up; not here, not now. This is my cowardly display of strength, not an ounce of emotion, not a hint of regret, determined, and hollow.
"I can't take this anymore…"
The difference between us is that you will walk away, move on; get over. I will lament over the wound, pick the scabs, and do everything to prevent it from healing much longer than you will even remember my name. This is what I die for over, and over again; to feel the pain, to live a little more, and to restore my beauty in tragedy.
"Goodbye"
