My Death Equals Your Death Equals My Death

Yes, I died for you. I died for you and to you and with you nearby. I gave you that death because I thought it would set us free. But my death seeped into your soul and you said it was too much, too heavy. Your heart grew flaccid and your lungs hardened and you stopped bothering to move the blood in your veins. I screamed at you from the underworld that you had no right to play dead, that I had given you my life and that was my choice and you were a weakling to let it destroy you. You mumbled agreement and smiled but refused to breathe.

So I had to be reborn. Had to resurrect myself and come back to you. I came back to shake you awake, demand explanations, wait for apologies. To stick pins in your arms and pry your eyelids open. When I found you there were pills and ashes everywhere. There was the stench of alcohol and the cops lurked outside like ravenous wolves while I shook you shook you shook you.

But you never woke up.

So I left. I left you behind and forced myself with every step to forget a little more. I rose from the ashes and I keep my scars well covered and there are some days when I'm able to hide them even from myself. But YOU know. Your pale blue eyes rip straight through every defence and every subterfuge until it's just you and me laying in a cold dark room while the sirens howl outside.

You had your revenge. That death of yours, it shook me shook me shook me.

We still walk this earth, you and I. And maybe we are live human beings but never when we're together. Together we're husks, gazing hungrily at what we might devour in the other. Together we gleefully tear open old wounds and pretend like schoolboys that they don't hurt. We strip down to nothing but our scars and it feels like we're almost alive again. We've got our hooks in each other and as desperately as we want to let go, we can't. The skin has grown over them and I'll rip open every old scar for you, but I won't make a new one. I won't make a new one.