The Chaos

Ink smudges as I crumple the paper for a fifth time. I’m silent and unmoving while I contemplate eloquent phrases that could make your eyes shine.

But I can’t be like you.

Though I pride myself in pieces that accurately describe each part of me, it is nothing compared to the breath you exhale. It’s living in the company of someone I admire, and someone I strive to tear down at the same time. But these stories are common to us. I want to hear all the grizzly details of demons that mark our skin when we are alone; you know, I understand the chaos.

If we close our eyes as our stories unfold, it starts to feel like we’re not alone. Still, I write these codes to further myself from any understanding. I can’t seem to let go as you have; so here lies the barrier inside my brain that I hope you can break down.

I could describe a metaphor of a storm that would knock you back, as if I had punched you square in the mouth. And as blood dripped from the corner of your lips, I’d simply stare and wish you’d see the chaos of what I’d done.

But I can’t be like you.

Because every fascination I find in who you are, is chaos that you cannot control.

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