4600
Clarity
Through inebriated lenses my thoughts collide with thoughts of suicide, with thoughts of everything and nothing, colliding with the epitome of yearning but never receiving…
This is how love has left me….
Love… who first introduced itself to me at the tender age of thirteen, quickly consuming my very being with masturbatory images found airbrushed and glossed-over, volumes and volumes of released -stuck pages, my private fantasies materialized with but a turn of a page.
Love… whose hand guided me through clumsy backseat fumblings of bra straps deftly removed with precision and purpose and steamed windows from passion filled breath ultimately leading to the premature ejaculation of innocence and spewing of sexual inexperience
Whose oral talents in handicapped high school elevators catapulted my deviancy to new and exciting levels of selfishness, embracing voyeurism and disregarding of other’s feelings the last thing occupying this mind
Whose hold imprisoned me from lack thereof in my latter years, strangled and held fast within the grips of malted hops and powdered evil, consumed in quantities unbeknownst to this very day, a casualty of both mental and physical abuse to this one body I own
Love, the bastard that bought me to Wi-Fi induced heartache and suffering, the butt of all jokes, truth distorted digitally “on the nation’s fastest 4G network†one megabyte at a time, time wasted and squandered on electric dreams and deleted realties, never truly connecting in this realm, with Skype and text messaging as a foundation
Whose cruel, warped, twisted sense of humor found me wandering notorious streets in search of it, only finding quick fixes through shattered lives and disposable latex, flung aside only to be consumed by hungry leeches and parasites that were fattened from the desperation within, the act itself lasting mere minutes but scarring and damaging this man forever
Love… whose promises of heavenly music, movie-like happiness, hand-holding ceremonies and eternal bliss fall short to the reality of a mundane, lifeless existence punctuated with accents of artificial exhilaration repeated in excess only to come back to this one conclusion:
Love, in itself does not exist.
An antiquated idea, adored by millions, accepted by just as many fools, perpetuated by the Greeting Card Whores and Valentine Sluts and countless Hopeless Romantics worldwide, to validate their feelings of lust. An idea gone by the way of the dinosaurs and Elvis and disco and bell-bottoms and mourned-over Kennedys and smoldering Twin Towers, never to set foot on this earth again.
May it rest in peace, the leech.
