I’ve tasted galaxies of life
And death
And sorrows past feeling.
Of joy without limit
And the doubting of self.
I’ve drunk rivers of peace
And oceans of boundless wonder.
I’ve breathed in clouds of self-pity
And enjoyed the smells of meadows
Filled with unending mystery.
But I’m not you.
I will never be like you.
And even when our souls do
Touch.
I feel more distant when we part
Than before we met.
But you feel fulfilled,
Enlightened even.
Like I’m just another self-help book
On your shelf of past experiences.
Like I’m a pass or fail college course
You can take in eight weeks
And forget about in three.
So I cover my scars with a cloak of shame
As they spread down my twisted back.
And I hide my broken tears
In the lyrics I sing to the world.
You sing along,
Calling my suffering, “art” and saying,
“It’s beautiful.”
“I wish I could write like that.”
“It makes me want to cry.”
If you knew what it cost,
To create the art you marvel at,
You’d draw your eyes anywhere else.
The beauty you see
Is the mask worn by the fallen angel of who I am.
If you could write like I write,
You’d cry tears
You could never take back.
I wish you never have to cry the tears
I’ve cried.
And I’d cry them again
If it meant saving you
From it all.
But even then, inside of me,
I feel the rusted inner-turmoil of a Saint who killed his god.
Who can’t get over the death,
Cause it was a senseless pleasure murder
Disguised as a mercy killing.
All else died on that day,
The day his god died.
And I can taste,
The ever-running-tears from the Saint’s face,
As I hold it next to mine,
And I wish he could forget
When his god died.
But then,
I wish you suffered
Like I did-
Honestly,
I wish you suffered worse than I did.
Because I’m tired.
I’m so tired.
Cause every bed is a bed of thin needles.
So I stand and bite down on my hand
So the blood distracts me from my failing heart.
But when I grow tired of even that,
And the blood dries,
I’m left with a swollen, teeth-marked palm
And a heart struggling to even gasp.
Then I remember
your worth,
And take back the tar-smeared words I never said to you,
And put out the livid torch with my fingers.
Because I love-
I love you more,
Than I could ever love myself.
Nathanael Hueso 