Oh look at me, I’ve been lying. Lying to myself, lying to the doctor, lying to her, lying to him, lying to my mother, to my boss, to everyone and everything because one must protect herself from the scary things, the ugly things, the evil things of this fallen, sullen, false and specious world.
I love her. I don’t. I can’t! I can’t do something that I don’t know what it is and I don’t know what love is. I am a loveless thing, empty and cold, black inside, of rotted heart and an empty maw in the place and space where there is supposed to be a soul. I am not a thing you look to for comfort, for happiness, for warmth. I am not a thing to be looked upon at all.
Too fucked up, too messed up, too sinful, too much nothing to give something, like love, a home–driftwood and bric-a-brac, a cracked concrete foundation, strewn wire and curled up paint chips–not a home for anyone, not a home at all.
Oh look at me, I’ve been lying, I don’t love anyone or anything because that mercy has not been given me.
Not even for myself.