Revelation

I don't expect you to have a revelation (definition: a surprising and previously unknown fact, esp. one that is mad known in a dramatic way, Synonym: beyond biblical in my mind). I started out hoping that maybe in the dusty corners of your mind there was potential for discovery, for the newfound understanding that you're a better man than you make yourself out to be. I am desperate and flailing, a contradiction to my face. I turn around and feel whispers wrap their fingers around my throat, cold and foreign; your mouth. Everything you try to heal just ends up leaving a bruise and drenched in purple and blue I'm standing here screaming "for the love of God find something to love." I always have and I always will find you to be something extraordinary. Even if when you rip at your own skin and pull at the arteries and dig in your bones to find something in your marrow and you're furious that all you found were cells and matter, and a pulse. If I could make myself seep in between your toes and into your bloodstream and weave myself up into your head and sit on your eardrum, I'd beat the hell out of it until you understand that there are things worth hearing in this world.

I'm perched inside your eyelids so even when you're trying to sleep I'm still laid out in front of you, naked, begging for you to see something that I guess you've always been blind to. It's retinitis pigmentosa of your human functions, the little things that you're just supposed to get. Like when someone lays down in the middle of the road, the yellow lines a suture line, just to get you to look at them and say something that takes more than five seconds to put together inside your head, you're supposed to notice things like that.

This is no ordinary love, it's carnivorous, it's vultures. But we forgot somewhere along the lines that I'm a vegetarian, that I'd prefer to leave your carcass intact, that I'd rather just let you pick at me.

I didn't expect you to have a revelation.

But I guess I expected something more than this.