It's odd how a few words on a page can crumble seventeen years of work. It's odd how a few pixels can break through ten million tiny locks ticked on chains around your heart and bury a needle in the muscle. A needle isn't big, but it hurts. It hurts and hurts and hurts.

Take the worst news you can imagine receiving, times it by a million. Try getting told that the people you care most about don't really love you. Try fighting it with every atom that makes up ever cell that makes up every tissue that makes up you. Try throwing seventeen years worth of pain in the face of it. Watch it blink. Pray that it is blinded. Feel the air flow in gushes out of your lungs when you realize it still sees. Maybe, then, maybe you start to feel the defenses crumbling. Maybe then you start to feel that raw needle shifting in your heart. Maybe then you begin to realize that only truth is unblinded by deception.

He can't have loved me nearly as much as I love him.

It is funny, how we cover the pain with anger. It is like pain is too much for us; we have to hide under that reflective shield. I am so angry, but at nothing. It is unfocused anger. It blurs, it buzzes. It breaks down the locks and it turns all the keys.

"You write such pretty words, but life's no story book. Love's an excuse to get hurt, and to hurt." (Bright Eyes). I thought this was true. I thought love was pain. The fifth or sixth entry in this blog is about what I thought up until now.

I've said that he's told me he loves me a million times (you write such pretty words) but that his actions never were in accordance with his words (but life's no story book...). I have for months believed the words. Words are nothing. Words are nothing in the bible, words are nothing to Nietzsche (don't smite me), words are nothing when they come from people's mouths. Words are pointless when Nick C. is ranting about anarchy and the follies of the American government (all theory, no action). Action proves.

Ignore all the words. It's not just him, either. It's everyone. Imagine a brother you adore. You thought he would never leave you. Imagine all of the words (I love you), imagine that story book. Then imagine the action- oral sex on a living room floor. I love you. Sex. Oh, what a conflict.
(do you feel your heart breaking, the locks clicking, the flood raging?)
Imagine watching the police come to your house to tell an angry boy something. Imagine your father pushing a boy into a closet. Imagine the crash of wood, unrepaired for years. Imagine drugs in a suitcase. Imagine a boy playing video games with his sister.
She never got mad, she was never ever mad...
She never got mad. But maybe I do. Maybe that boy betrayed me. Maybe he didn't love me nearly as much as I loved him. Maybe he forced me down on that floor not because he was angry, or lost, or dissociative, or unculpable. Maybe he knew what he was doing, and maybe he did it anyway, no matter how wrong he knew it was.
HE LEFT ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I hated my parents for that. I hated them for sending him away. But they didn't send him away. He left me. He never cared like I did. We never talk about it now. All he can say is sorry. Maybe it was his fault. Maybe I am angry if it was his fault. He left me.

(your love is gonna drown)

Imagine a mother who tells her daughter she loves her no matter what. Maybe she was abused as a child. Maybe she doesn't even know it's wrong. Maybe she really does love her daughter. Imagine that daughter getting hit. Not badly, physically, but bad enough to shatter some emotional bridge. LOSS LOSS LOSS. Imagine a girl with a cut wrist in eigth grade and a mom, "How could you do this to me?"
It wasn't me. I didn't do it to you. But you did do it to me.
"People hit their kids all the time..."
There is a line. You see it blurring, blurring. There is no line anymore. There is a sky as black as nothing.

Oh, but you love me...
You don't love the ones you hurt. You don't hurt the ones you love.

Imagine a mother giving away a turtle a little girl loved but neglected. "You take care of the things you love," she said. "If you loved Herman, you would take care of him."
If you loved Lindsay, would you take care of her?
(You write such pretty words...)

It hurts, doesn't it? The girl on the floor, the things in her mouth, the mother with the turtle, the boy on the plane. It hurts. Why? Words don't match actions. The words, they never match actions.
Actions speak louder than words.
If you loved me, you would take care of me. You don't hurt the things you love.
(Love's an excuse to get hurt...)

All of this hurts. It sifts through the walls of years of deception. It buries the anger. The TV is playing, such soap opera lives. Loud enough to drown out the echo of a flat hand against a child's cheek.

You think this hurts... imagine it as a dead ache, an old wound festering again in a new irritation. Now imagine, parallel to the aching needle, a knife slicing through walls and entering the heart.

There was a boy, you see. And he said, you are the only one. And he said, you are my only one. And then he OD'd for me. And then he kissed a girl. He told me I don't make him feel loved.

Can you think of anything worse to tell the girl who held the turtle who spit out the taste.

[My mom wants me to watch TV right now. She said she's sick of me. She just told me 'go to hell.' Actions speak louder than words].

You love a boy, you love him so much you would do anything for him, and you realize you're not the only one, there are other girls, there are other people, people better than you.

He can't have loved me. I don't care about his pretty words. He can't have loved me.

Do you feel that needle sifting, sifting? Do you hear a little girl in a room with her cousin, "Will you play that game with me?" It was enough, that sentence, for thirteen years of guilt. I want to be done. I don't want it to be my fault anymore.

30 seconds mom says.

The knife shifts, the heart explodes.

Give a little bit of my love to you.