Messages in a Bottle

[fishfry]

Rambled writings, consigned to the sea, but for once, writing does not clear the mind. There is no clearing this mind.

Dear Stranger,

It's been years since I wrote. I thought I didn't need this, comfort in words written to someone who doesn't exist. Having a shoulder to turn to helped, I thought? I thought? Didn't it? Doesn't it?

Why does it make it worse? Why does talking to someone else make it worse? They don't listen, they don't hear, they can't see it how I see it! Why won't anyone listen to me. The problem is me. It always has been.

I was so stupid. To think that I could justify anything. To think I knew what was right or wrong. I haven't CARED in so long. Where is that boy who wrote desperately to the ocean to beg what the right answer was? Where did he go? Why am I here instead? When did I kill him?

I used to care so much, I used to feel bad about it. Bad about the choice that I made, GUILTY for hurting someone else. I didn't see how much it hurt me. It hurts. Gods, spirits, it hurts. I hurt.

When I actually feel something, it's always too much. Too high, dizzy, delirious, reckless. Too low, empty, aching, guilty. I can't think anymore.

The last thing that I held to that I told myself--as long as I kept this sacred, nothing else mattered. Every slip and mistake, every willful harm, every lie, every bad thing I did, it was okay. As long as I kept to the most important thing.

I can't even lie and say that I've only had a single person as my most sacred, because--haven't I ruined him? Haven't I taken everything? I looked at him and I called it saving and I tore out every part that didn't fit my plan, and when I looked and found more out of place I tore and I tore and I tore.

There's something broken in me, something poison. I didn't used to be like this. Did I? Did I? Was I always tainted?

What was it for? Why did I do this? Everything I've given up. Everyone I've hurt. All for him. I broke him and he broke me and I thought everything was fine, that I could fix anything. But I can't, I can't fix this. Maybe I could fix him but I'd never fix me afterwards.

Why does a tender touch feel like rotten meat. When did savagery become preferable. Why does he hold me like I matter when I've done this to him? Why won't he see that I'm just as bad as everything that I 'saved' him from. Why won't he punish me for what I've stolen.

Maybe I'm worse. Because no one can tell. No one looks at me and sees a monster. They should. I've changed to look more like it. And they still see me. Why do they see me. I haven't existed in a long time.

When did I die? When did I kill who I used to be? When did every moral wither up.

I want to care again. I want to feel again.

The last moral I held, I broke. Should I give up? Would it be so bad to give in to the worst part of me?

Maybe I need to tear the rest out. Finish the job.

But I'm scared. Someone asked me once. How much do you change before the person you cared about is gone. I said the answer didn't matter. I meant it.

Maybe that was the wrong answer.