People. They don't get it. They think everything is about themselves. That makes me laugh, angry, then sad. It makes me sad because this world is so cold it makes us so small, and petite. We doubt the kindness we receive, hate the random love being given. We are so lonely we hit each other with the cruelty on our tongues and the anxiety in our heart, the holes on our souls keep getting bigger every time we fear love.
I love this world and its people. I also hate it with all my heart. "Men like you, they kill me." Jack Harkness said and jumped from the rooftop of the building and by the time the other got there, his body has already disappeared, leaving only a blood mark on the ground.
So, I wrote it for you. I wrote it for you because only you would understand it. Because you wouldn't have thought of all the pains others have to go through if you didn't love them. Because you could have done terrible things and hurt other people's feelings too but you didn't. They don't understand your hatred, your darkness, and all the voices inside your head, but you go on anyway and listen to the voices in their head that amplify through the looks on their eyes. You get it before they even realize. Then you cry for them and it makes you look weak.
People hate your sympathy. It scares them. And every time, they have a new face. Strangers with different faces came into your world and at first they all were so warm it makes you sick. They suck the kindness out of you. They brought the demons outside but they fear them. Now all you have left is the untamed demons that have eaten your heart just so they can come out to the surface.
And you thought to yourself, "after this time, I'm so done with getting involved with people". But you do anyway, you look at their visible pain and you feel it, on the tips of your fingers, deep down in your throat, in your stomach, in your ears. Strangers' pains sting you, like a million needles drowning onto your flesh every time a suicidal thought runs across your head. You didn't stop them. You let them overwhelm you with their stories, didn't realize that it was a story under censorship because those strangers are also afraid of themselves.
And you wanted to get angry, but every single time, it became this sadness that runs in your vein, fill your body with disappointment and all you can manage to say is, I thought you would understand. But they don't. They don't want to. Sweet things are hard to come by.
I love that you still manage to trust people. But you were so kind, so selfless, it makes them think that you want something back. They were probably right.
But only this time, you cannot afford it.
I wrote it for you, indeed. All I need is a source of warmness that reminds me, I'm not the only one. And I am not the only one, even though it is still this lonely, because you aren't here. This is the third time I killed you. I'm sorry. I will be more careful next time.
