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I really can't stand to see you sad.
Even though I'm aware that you're just pretending, even though I should know by now you're just trying to manipulate me, I fall for it again every single time. I practically fall apart trying to make it better, trying to fix what I've deluded myself into believing that I'm important enough to cause. I join in on your little act to see if I can fool myself, too.
It works a little too well until illusion breaks apart and I have to mask my hurt with anger. I scream at you until my throat burns, knowing it does you no damage. Sometimes, in a sick, resigned sort of way, I almost like knowing that nothing I do can ever hurt you.
Most times though, I just drive myself crazy trying to convince myself that there's got to be a way that I could ever be something, anything, to you. I check off all the useless ways until I'm left with the glaringly obvious answer: that the only way you'll ever really want me is dead.
On the really bad days, I think I might even let you kill me if it would truly make you happier. I even entertain the thought of doing it myself, just getting it over with by getting out of your way so neither of us have to suffer anymore for my stupidity. The only reason I don't ever do it is because a part of me is still pathetic enough to cling onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, you would be sad. That you might cry for me the same way you did for Kenny. I get so close sometimes, some days a lot closer than others - but I never step off the brink because the look on your face on that day flashes in front of my eyes and then I just can't.
I can't stand to see you sad. I just can't, because I -
To be honest, I don't even entertain the thought of ever actually having you. Not anymore, anyway. I don't do well with feeling that powerless. Instead I've gone and latched on to being obsessed with the idea that I could be good for you, maybe have some kind of positive influence on you. Not to "change you for the better" or anything gay like that, but to protect you from the inevitable consequences of all the retarded things you do.
I only care about you. I guess I do have a funny way of showing it.
I'm sorry. I'm helpless. I'm tired. I'm sick of being so goddamn useless to you and I just don't know what to do anymore. I've screamed myself hoarse, fought back so many tears trying to get through to you, but deep down in my broken heart I know I never will. Because the truth is simple and cold: you don't care about me, and you don't care that I care. You may be a retarded fatass, but you're not stupid. I've stalked you enough to know that you know exactly how I feel - you just don't give a fuck. Sometimes when our eyes meet you have this amused glint in yours, and my heart fucking drops to the floor. I raise my chin in defiance to your sickening little smirk, daring you to say it out loud - and the glint disappears, replaced with this mask of innocence as you go back to pretending you have no fucking idea how poor Kahl feels. It's all a game to you, and you've gone and ripped even the idea of confession right from my throat and squeezed it dry between your chubby fingers. Checkmate.
And there, you've done it. You've taken it all by taking nothing at all.
I'd do anything, absolutely anything, to take this love for you and turn it into something you'd find any sort of use for, anything that could reach and warm your heart because God, you know what, sometimes you look so fucking lonely. You have the nerve to look cold, and unloved, and alone, like I don't even count. Like you'll never let me hold any of your pain no matter how much I scream and cry and beg for it. No matter how desperately I want to carry fucking all of it, it passes right through me like I'm nothing but a ghost. Like I'm not really there.
The worst part is, I know that you truly do care about so many things. You are capable of love, and warmth, and compassion, all those tantalizing things that have kept me hovering in the sidelines. It kept me on my toes for years just waiting for the day that warmth might shine on me. Because no matter what anyone says, I know that you have a heart. It's just that I will never have a place in it.
I've tried to fight it, and I've tried so fucking hard to hate you, but it's no use because all the reasons I hate you are just reasons why I never could. I might try to stand for what's good, but I'm a hypocrite and a failure because in the end all the good inside me ends up kneeling, fucking crumbling to pieces, in the face of what is beautiful.
And it's you. You are everything that is beautiful.
I know no one else sees it - hell, for all your dumb arrogance I doubt even you see it the way I do - but you are fucking exquisite. I want to tear myself apart from how you are so extreme and convoluted yet so simple, so pure, so clean in everything you believe and everything you do. You are the very end of the circle. You are the Truth. You are staggering, ridiculous, infuriating, infinite clarity.
That is why I can never stop this obsession, this depraved need to have your attention directed at me. Even though I know it's only driving me further and further away from your heart, even though I know the only reason you prefer I live is because you want me to suffer, I still cling onto every piece of your attention. Cut myself deep into the disinterested blade of your gaze until I split open and bleed, bleed over the whole scene until it blurs enough so that I don't notice the way the flicker of softness in your eyes is nothing more than a dull reflection of my own despondent stare.
I do it all just so that I can see you sad.