Similar in style but unrelated to "Caging."






Looking Down







She doesn't know why she loves me.

Some days she doesn't know she loves me at all.

I know because I watch her; I am an expert on every move she makes, every pulse of blood in the tip of every finger. I almost love her more than life itself--I love her as life, as if she is life. I can count every pore of her skin. I love her unreservedly and immutably. My love is the kind of love that can drink poison. I watch her, the way she moves through life at once resigned to the disaster before it happens and constantly, irrevocably surprised. I see her confusion at every kindness. Her sheer incomprehension in the face of any human connection.

I know that she is uncomfortable with me, that sometimes she hates my eyes on her, my endless gaze that never varies.

Sometimes I look at her and my infinite love for her makes me cut myself.

Once I remember I died for her.

Only a few times has that made her look back at me.

The fervor and grudge of her gratitude are both perfect and insulting. If I am true to myself I cannot make her do more than pause.

She walks through life always pushing--pushing herself, pushing me, pushing time. Even breath itself is forced. She will not turn around.

Things that I know about her: she does not know how she feels about anything. She is plain. She does not think she is brave. She has poor eyesight and sporadic vision. She hates herself. She detests any insect larger than a nickel, and does not do the laundry until the very last unavoidable moment. She does not understand her friends. She does not believe in most things. She is desperately, desperately lonely. She looks only in the mirror, and in it she is vile, wretched, disgusting.

She does not know why she loves me. Some days she does not know she loves me at all.

She knows she is being watched. She only watches the mirror. She is vile, wretched, disgusting. A plague upon the earth. A walking poison.

My love is the kind of love that can drink poison.








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