Because People Can Die From This

For the need to write more than a meager little fiction, I lay on my bed, head turned low, night oscillating in brief, quiet circles above my head. To be taken seriously - what a joke - and to tell more than what you've spoken, is a desire that draws parallels to the capture and portrayal of art. And this may be little more than a pathetic fallacy I've composed of my own devices, but the need isn't to be heard anymore - its to speak as if I'm heard. To hear those words flowing from my lips, to the lines I draw with my hands, to know that it was not I who erred should you discover the true meaning of this indulgent illusion of mine. But for the need to write more than fiction, I pressed my skin against the cool wall and try to sink into it's surface. To say something, something peculiar, insightful. But what can you say of nothing more than fear? Because I want to be more than just that - a one word draft. Not to be the clever one, the deep one. But for the need. The need to look at a word and find some extract of meaning. Something more than a drugged up boy with a fucking gun in his hand. For words with no weight, I will carry you no further. My back is broad enough to carry clearer thoughts. For the paper, sitting on my table for three days, because no one can dare throw away the story, as if to do so would mean they'd grown unsympathetic. We need it, on the table. For the light words they are to say "how awful". Did no one think this would happen? The overindulgent youth of our time, unbounded and uninhibited. The authoritarian patriarchal figured who a gratified with nothing more than a visual obedience. The media, streamlining violence for the every day consumer. Of course they did. But we need this don't we? For hypocrisy in the world. How terrible that there should be fear and upset. For the rebellious. Thank god someone rebells more than I do. For the overbearing. Thank god I'm a bitch, I have the right to protect my child. For the hurt. Thank god no one else was hurt. For the demanding. Thank god I suffered the attention. For gun barrel. Thank god I saw daylight. For the illegitimate. Now I'm legitimate. For the stories we hear. Thank god it's just a story to us. For me. Thank god for the words to say. For the mad interpretation. For the conjugation of absurd, irrelevant thoughts. The paper still rests on our table, for the need of more than a meager little fiction. For something real.