He told me I was like an angel, with beaten and battered wings that glistened in the sunlight, a voice ever-so-soft, and a touch ever-so-pure.
I lit a cigarette with his name on it and said, “Haven’t you ever noticed the good people go through horrible things? It’s because we’re the worst of them all. We’re the biggest liars and most deceptive people in this place. We lie to ourselves to comfort our souls and trick ourselves into believing we aren’t damaged. At least the sinners can admit defeat and confess that they’re broken. The good ones see being fucked up as a virtue more than a vice, and honey, if you touch my wings, you might get cut. They only glisten because they’re composed of shards of glass. Not everything that glitters is gold. Not everything that shines is meant to be admired; sometimes, things are only beautiful if you keep your distance. If you still want to think I’m beautiful, then you need to trust me when I tell you to stay far, far away.”
I was made to understand, not to be understood. Some people are doomed with that existence. To be understood is such a foreign tie to my name; my mind is like an ocean with raging waters and is as destructive as it is healing.
He was a unique kind of beautiful; he was like a piece of abstract paper mache. He was rough around the edges, yet so vivid on the inside. He was strong but so easy to rip to shreds. He knew what he wanted in life and didn’t let anything stop him. He was a prisoner of his mind, the most vivid kind of darkness to exist.
He ran from my complexity. He never quite understood how I could feel everything yet nothing at all. He never realized that he could not be the one to tame the storm inside of me, that some things just aren’t meant to be tamed. Sometimes it takes experiencing your fears firsthand to know what true freedom is. I was everything he tried to stay away from his whole life, but humans have a particular taste for danger and a thrill that comes from the rush.
“You are not just a concept; you’re an enigma. Enigmas are the art that walks this devastating, gray world.”
His voice was shaking, and I could never tell if it was me or the drugs to blame. Was I worthy of being called colorful? It’s so strange that indeed—a composition of skin and bones can destroy your very being. I’ve always wondered why and where we get our motives from; my restless mind always leads me to believe that tragedy is the reason behind a person’s actions, the excuse for someone’s sinful ways.
I’m in a continuous state of subconsciousness that always leads me out of my head into something much more fulfilling, much more rational. I often ponder restlessly at night, asking myself endless questions that all lead back to the diverse topic of happiness. Will I ever feel the sensation of joy throughout my veins like heroin, rather than misery like whiskey burning through my bloodstream? I want to feel what it’s like; I need to feel what it’s like. It’s such a beautiful concept, yet so many are distracted with the deception that false happiness poses.
When he told me I was the most glaring thing he ever witnessed, I smiled. He’d been so devoid of color in this black-and-white world that he no longer knew how to define it. He told me he loved me because I was a flight risk. He loved that he never knew what I was thinking about; instead, I always said we were thinking about the same things. We never were, and he knew that all too well.
He told me I made him feel the same way the pills made him feel: euphoric, sedated, and addicted all in one small place. He underestimated the way I would overtake his mind and his body, that sometimes beautiful things hurt when you know you can’t save them.
When he told me he loved me, I told him I didn’t know what that meant.
“I told you, if you wanted to think I was beautiful, you should’ve stayed far away.”
He took out a cigarette that had my name written on it and said, “You’re torn at every edge, and I have spent countless hours attempting to put your seams back together to form something remotely cohesive. One morning while staring at the rising sun, I realized that people never understand that they’re art; they’re only ever viewed as it.”