Good Evening, World.

An introduction. Based on fact. Actually the third in a series but this one makes the most sense.

This photograph
is everywhere I look. It’s supposed to be of all of us but I only ever really
focus on you or me. We’re at opposite ends of the table. I’m dead centre and
you’re far right. You look at the camera as if you own it; you look as if you
know that you’re better than this. Than me. All I want is to not be 300 miles
from you. All I want is to take you by your shoulders and bring us face-to-face
and so close that our eyes are mere millimetres away. I want to look you
straight in the eye and fix you with the most cold-hearted stare I possess and
say in the bitterest of voices, “I can see straight through you.”

It’s all very
well listing your good qualities in the loudest possible voice, telling me
every single time we’re together that you love your own voice, your jaw-line,
your body and your confidence. It’s all very well. But I’m not so dumb as to
believe everything I’m told. I wasn’t drawn to linguistics for nothing. I
wouldn’t be a particularly good poet if I didn’t value the smaller things. I've
watched the way you carry yourself across a room, the way your arms move when
you want to make a point but feel you can’t, the way you’ll follow the person
you’re talking to, as if they’ll forget you the minute they turn away. You’re
awkward. You’re scared. You’ve so much left to learn about yourself. It’s
perfectly well and good knowing who you want to be, but please don’t let it
interfere with who you are. That’s the man I love. And I think he’s dying,
suffocating under carrying the weight of the person you are trying to be. The
confident one. The intellectual one. The party-goer who every guy aspires to be
and every girl aspires to get. The one who lets logic rule over emotions. To
you, he’s perfect, marble, flawless and sophisticated. To me, you’re callous
and cold, a liar, a cheat and a fake. I want to smash your face like a mirror
and reach in to rescue the golden boy hiding within. He’s bound in metal chains
and whenever he surfaces, you exorcise yourself. I've heard you have a temper.
I know you’ve got a skeleton.

You could’ve let
me in. I've a track record in dealing with people like you. Well, I have a track
record of loving them. And they have a habit of turning me away at the last
possible moment, when I've fallen far too far to claw my way back. Does this
sound familiar? Have I crossed your mind before today? I doubt it. You’re happy
in your bed and I’m just a troublemaker.


I don’t want you
to change. Please don’t.


Recently, I've
learnt a little more about myself. I’m still not confident, but I can give off
the impression that I am. I’m not the best at what I do when I write but it’s
the one thing I can brag about. Nobody brags about the truth, that’d be mundane
and quite possibly implausible. However, when I care about somebody who is
hurting themselves, in whatever way, I have a tendency to place myself directly
in front of them and declare myself to be not only present but accountable for
and worth listening to. What I say will usually sound like a lecture. Probably
because it is. But those people always come back to me and thank me for what I
said, however many years on it is that they rectify their demons. It’s not
confidence and it’s not obligation, I just know when I need to say something
that needs to be heard.

With you, I
never felt the need. You smoke poison, you have every inner demon a man could
possibly have, you lie to yourself and you’re a living, breathing,
all-encompassing Gatz, but I never felt the need.

I think you’re a
lost cause.

I think I should
believe in myself that little bit more because you refused to believe in me.

I think I need
to remain true to myself, regardless of the tiny part of me that still loves

I think, that
you are not yourself.

And so I cannot
possibly love you.

And that, my
friend, is that.

The End

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