Tasting the Bitter Fruits

For your ignorance, I would like to let you taste the brick I would like to throw at your face.  Sometimes vivid and violent images pass through my mind.

I hear the intervals of these notes and I can almost taste the iron of blood it stirs in my stomach.

I hear the words, and I can smell the steel wool being worn down, the metallic taste ripping through my mouth and coating behind my front teeth and under my tongue.  I can hear you, but I can smell and taste the crispness of your words.  Open up my eyes for a time, and I might see something, too.

To close your eyes to this waking consciousness, to close your eyes to this overstimulus of feeling and emotion and emotional void.  To close your eyes of this intense feeling of misery felt at the commercialism of a bar of soap.
Nothing seems to be able to wash me clean.  Nothing seems to cleanse me from this draught.  Nothing can make me shiny as a new toy again.  There is not magic that can do this.
Your newness lasts in a fading memory and in a dream that stirs my waking mind when I hear the words.  When I smell the burn, I think of you in anger that you are associated with anything in my mind at all.
Where are the erasers to burn out and squelch this vain heart looking to conquer?

I am burned with a desire.
Conquering, and overwhelming,
I will overwhelm you, and I will overcome, and your disbelief will be the look on your face.  You will look and always be in disapproval of me, no matter the obstacles I have overcome to even know you.  I will never be good enough, because I never was, nor ever will be yours.
Blood is blood.
You shaped nothing of the figment of imagination that I am.
I am a creature of myth, and I do not belong in this realm to be your blood borne scorned mistake that you will not admit to claiming.  You will not admit to the moment of passion you felt in a secret place, in an unspecial town, in an unspecial way.  Curiosity made you the killer, murdering a relationship we could have had.  You bore me for no reason, nor direction.
I was shaped in strong hands, stronger than yours could have ever been.

We both know you could never have wielded this child.  We both know you could never have held me close.
We both know you never really will.
Why do we keep lying about this.
I will always be your rejected one, and a patching of some broken relationship.
There is healing.
There is scarring.

I'm between a waking and sleeping world.

I'm between your words and your unspoken thoughts.
I'm between your teeth, the tongue to yield your good and bad.
Both come.
Bitter, and sweet.