I'd mark it off as another
accomplishment as
I saw him cry. They would all cry, I could make them do it. I'd carry on
my role until I knew it was time. I could take their
dreams and slowly rip them apart between
my hands as if it were a piece a paper and I'd force them to watch in agony. I could pick one out anywhere - walking down a street, sitting in a corner in a club,
the words upon a screen. Those kind of men, those kind of people, who were so ready to
love. So ready to be loved, but were either too shy or simply too
misunderstood. I would show them that love and take theirs, then I'd crush them. Step on them, under the heel of my shoe and watch them cry.
I hurt.
I wanted them to hurt like
I did. I wanted to know that there were people in the
world that felt the same. I wanted to
destroy myself and I sure as hell wasn't going down alone.
I'm sorry.
I am. I know I took
something from each of them. I could see it in their faces as I watched them
break. One of them calls me up every few months,
plastered and incoherent, and begs me to love him. He's not moved in five years, still in place, in his
limbo, wanting me to love him again. I'm sorry.