"Everything Will Be Alright In the End"

There's that twisting irony once again. Lingering behind the curtains and drapes of the theater I've set you on, carefully listening for its cue, waiting for its moment to stop being just an understudy to the brilliant (horrifying) lead in the script I've written with our fingertips. It's only fitting to recall my everlasting Parker Luck - I knew that there was something written in the stars, but upon tracing those constellations I find them giving their backs to me. I am a mess. I am succumbing to the DDoS attacks my anxiety and depression and self-loathing are frying my brain with. I never had enough traffic to host all these terabytes of emotion you bring to me, and now the connectivity problems are being made more apparent in each passing minute. I have no way to communicate myself to you; I have no excuses, no reasons, nothing but fear, regret, and apologies for my faulty wiring. I want to code the selflessness you deserve, the mirrored affection and brilliancy that you present to me. I wish I was more deserving - I wish I was better than I am.

But it always seems to bring me down to this. I never seem to learn nor put two and two together and realize that the common variable in all the coding errors my life seems to have is me. I let myself get carried away with the way things are going when they're great that I make no effort to improve myself. I am a victim of my own poorly built attitude and personality. God fucking dammit. I'm drowning under the waves of all these space invaders I so "cleverly" thought of installing instead of a more useful application - but who cares right? It's all about fun and enjoying yourself.

What a fucking joke.

I want to pour bleach where I poured the drinks that brought me to this excruciating moral hangover. I've lost everything that made complete sense to me through my own lack of accessibility and understanding. Jesus fucking Christ. Is there anything worse than myself? Worse than my attitude, my fear, my lack of drunken honesty that so badly intends to make things better. My inhibitions remain broken when sober or drunk, but my lack of ethical decisions leaves a glaring hole in my thought process. I am not a good person. I am not a good person. You always wanted a song written about you until I broke your heart.

And now I want to take it all back.

Yet as I read the braille down your back, I've merged my broken bones to yours - now I no longer know where the actor and the poet diverge. And this mockingbird heart with rattle gun wings rats out all the dream eaters on top of every bedpost that this sad boy has given himself to - more than before. Bend another door open to the time when my sternum was the one your ribbons blessed. Hide another hen in this den of foxes, corrupted water pouring into their digestive tracts of steel. Broken metal bends into their wills. These are my former selves - a neon sea of people clouding my "righteous" brain. If I ever had the thought of losing, I wouldn't have tried to place my bets on you. Now the council of remorse and regret stands in my head staring at me, judging and concerning, fully aware of the path I've dug myself into, some kind of underground inferno of self-loathing and self-pity. Meanwhile the only thought that my head can revolve itself around is that I was born to love her.

I was born to love you.