It would be nice if I could find a simple way to… if I could find a way to write about my story and make you care, for the only things that matter to you are the ones that fail to pass over my eyes and my mind no longer recognizes as the valid, the one. My one.
But like Caulfield, the subtleties of my words, the details of the images I capture, reflect darker and more violent tempers fermenting and manifesting in boiling water, underneath layers upon layers upon layers upon filthy rotten layers of self-deprecation, arrogance, and at its core my date-pit sized heart of humility, that I so desperately want back.
I once knew a person whose words felt heavy when they landed on my heart, they sunk into the veins like milk dripping off a teat and into the mouth of a starving infant. I once knew a person whose eyes slew my wandering mind, sharpening my focus to one and only one pair of latte eyes accompanied by honey-tipped brown hair. I once knew a person whose voice lifted me like helium to the stars and when I popped the pain was the beautiful agony that accompanied that night’s lay. I once knew a person who I could spill blood and matter onto, and mix with theirs and our tears would create an ocean in which we would sail to the horizon of uncertain change, a change that like the death of that person would lead to my own.