You Read Everything I write

      I can't romanticize this unloved state, where you peer at me but refuse to speak.
You cursed us both with solitude and there is no way to make it beautiful. It is not grotesque, it is not agonizing (alright, it is a little, but not enough), it is not horrifying - it's barely tragic. It just is.
      It is annoying, I suppose.
My life – the life you barely blend into, is ugly.
I can't dress you in roses to make up for it. I can't make a sight out of you when you refuse to be seen.
And I love you - you know that, I tell you every chance I get - but not enough to plead.
It doesn't work anyway. I can go down on my knees to beg,
                                                                                                but you will just watch me through the keyhole.
You'll watch me, while my eyes are red and puffy and my room is cramped and small. Around me lies unfolded laundry and scattered plates and plastic wrappers from months and months on end, and the shirt I wear is my mother's, and I hate how it looks, and I've worn it at least a week without changing, but I can't find my own. None of this shall move your eyes.
You blend in with my wallpaper. You peer and peer and peer and
                                                                                                                  God, what am I?
                  The performer? Should I dance?
                                                                        Should I make it worth looking at?

You speak in morsecode. You etch runes into the wall.
You put books on my pillow for me to read, you draw me a thousand times, over and over and over —
                                                                                                                                                                        but you do not talk
Not really, anyway. You won't step out into the light. You will not make it known that you are there —
even if it is so obvious! I can see you! I could prove that you are there! I could throw something at the wall that you pretend to be, and you would flinch, but then I would try to use that for proof, and you would just say
      "No."
You refuse to show up. You prefer to be a ghost.
I cannot love wallpaper.
I need flesh and blood.
You wear a sheet, you are not made of smoke, I could grab you –
                                                                                                      but if I do, you may hiss at me, growl at me,
                                                                              and then disappear forever, and I don't think I can bear that.

I want something real. I want to smell fire when you burn your papers, to collect tin that you leave around — to kiss you until my mouth bleeds and to crush your bones in an embrace
                                                      I sometimes want you so badly I think I could eat you,
                                                to tear heart string from heart string and use it as dental floss.
                                          I could cook you up and sink in my teeth.
I want to write about your favorite food and how bad it is, and about the evenings we spend by the water when wandering outside, with thousands of little flowers that start to bloom in spring.
                                                                                                I want, I want, I want...
And I should have it by now! You so readily take in all of me, should I in return not take all of you?
Should I not have you?
But instead I am left taking aim, and I'm too hesitant to shoot
You flicker before my eyes, target - no, targets, multiple - moving frantically—
                                                                                                                                                Where are you, damnit?
                        Is that you or is it just my own
                        reflection?
                        (You're transparent and you glow.)

I want to be a hunter, firing steady, firing sure, hitting bullseye at every chance I get – I know I have the aim.
      I know I have the aim but I
                                                      stumble
                                                      and don't pull the trigger
                                                      at all.
You're playing foul. This isn't fair. This isn't how you are supposed to act. And if you do, at least not for so long—
don't linger on my wall, goddamnit!
I want to take a hammer and smash everything to bits so that
                                                                                                                  you
                                                                                                                        and I
                                                                                                                              is all that remains

And I would! But I don't want to be left with nothing once you inevitably run off!

I want to be a hunter, but I am starting to feel more like a fox who is under investigation by a scientist.
Where's the fight?
You coward!
I want you to catch me! Stop stalking me! Draw my blood!
Draw my blood and make me yours!












No?
Just silence, is it?

I'll etch this on the wall then.
I'll respond in morsecode.
Two can play that game (bitch).
It's safe. I suppose it's safe. I understand why you choose it over the fire I want to burn everything with.
But, this room is too small to pretend I cannot see you.
I'll do it, as a courtesy (though you don't grant me any of those) —
I'll do it, like a coward, I'll wear your skin, I'll use your tactics,
                                                                                                      but I see you.

      I see you. I see you reading this.